Isamu means
by cedricsowner
Summary: My take on what a fourth season might have been like. Case fics, not-so-minimal shipping. Sequel to Kizuna means. WARNING: Mind the rating. FINAL CHAPTER UP NOW!
1. pact with the devil

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Big thank you to Pocket Sevens who helped with the Ilsa part!**_

_**~ pact with the devil ~**_

_"You're insane! Do you have any idea what kind of havoc an elephant running rampant can wreak? It'll trample us to death!" The client vowed, should he ever make it out of this situation alive, to have a word with his wife about hiring this Christopher Chance._

_Granted, given his momentary situation he should better vow to haunt her as a ghost at midnight, with rattling chains or something, but hope dies last, doesn't it?_

_"Not if we're riding on its back. Come on, Marshall, trust me!" Chance extended his hand and although everything in Marshall Pucci screamed at him not to do it, he grabbed it._

_Ten minutes later the market place and their pursuers were history, at least for now._

_And they'd probably be history soon, too, shouldn't they find a way off the bolting elephant sometime in the very near future._

_Trust Christopher Chance to come up with an even crazier plan than using the elephant to get away from the market…_

_"See that river, Marshall? It should be deep enough to cushion our fall. We're going to jump at the count of three – one, two…"_

_"What do you mean by should?"_

_"THREE!" It wasn't that Marshall was given much of a choice – Chance grabbed him by the shoulders and together they took a dive in a river that seemed to be serving as the city's sewage system, too._

_Oh, Ilsa would so get an earful for this._

_Stinking to high heaven, they crawled out of the river a mile or two away from the city._

_Only to be welcomed by their pursuers._

_Not those that had foolishly tried to stop the elephant, but they belonged to the same pack._

_"Seriously, couldn't you have shot us before we jumped into that river? Now I've spent the last few minutes of my life swimming in a cesspool!" Marshall hoped his complaining would buy them some time, till Chance had devised a new plan to get them out of this mess. Although, if the plan included going back into that river…_

_"I don't think they're going to shoot us, Marshall. They already got more than enough on their plate, they won't want to add double homicide to the list."_

_Their pursuers didn't exactly look impressed._

_"Guerrero, has the tape that proves those CIA agents' involvement in weapon trade and smuggle reached CIA headquarters meanwhile?", Chance said, seemingly talking to thin air._

_"You don't really think you can fool us?", the pursuers' leader barked. "There's no way there was a microphone on you."_

_"Not on us, no", Chance conceded. "But maybe that partner of yours should have checked his nice golden signet ring."_

_The young thief they had stumbled upon, Ames, had really well-trained pickpocket fingers. They should consider working with her regularly._

_"No." The leader still didn't buy it. "You're bluffing. You didn't switch the rings. He would have…"_

_Chance lifted a finger, indicating that he should turn around and take a look. At that very moment a small military airplane broke through the thick layer of clouds that was obscuring the sky. It circled above them and out parachuted at least a dozen heavily armed CIA agents. Guns at the ready, they slowly floated to the ground._

_"That was your plan?" Marshall asked Chance incredulously._

_"Well, not exactly, but all in all…." He shrugged and slapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get you back to your wife."_

_… … …_

_"We cannot put into words how grateful we are, Mr. Chance." Ilsa Pucci shook hands with Chance. "As a simple token of our gratitude we've decided to double the original fee we agreed upon."_

_"This is very generous of you, Mrs. Pucci. Thank you very much. And should you ever need our services again…" The Puccis shook hands with Winston._

_"This associate of yours, Mr…" They had never told the Puccis Guerrero's name. Ilsa hoped somebody would fill in the blank now, but nobody volunteered. "…he has already left?", she finally finished._

_"He had a meeting", Winston explained, glancing darkly at Chance when he thought their now ex-clients weren't looking._

_"Well, please let him know his assistance was greatly appreciated." Somewhere in the back a telephone began to ring and the Puccis waved their good-byes. They stepped into the elevator._

_As the doors hissed shut, Ilsa let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the wall. "Thank God this is over. I can't wait to get back to London."_

_Marshall smiled, reached out and slightly lifter her chin. "Confess. You're a tiny bit sorry we're leaving so soon again."_

_"Don't be ridiculous. Adventures are fine, but I prefer them depicted on a stage or screen."_

_"You did quite well in that palace. And you've always liked going one on one with people. Sometimes I think it's a shame you're spending your life hopping from one meeting to another. Aside from that, I wasn't talking about the action that you're going to miss." His eyes twinkled._

_"Mr. Chance undeniably is a handsome man", Ilsa admitted sheepishly, but Marshall only laughed._

_"Naah, not the blond blue-eyed one with the dimple, that would be too easy. I'm talking about the associate whose name they didn't tell us."_

_Now Ilsa was in indignant. "He looks like a Laotian rock rat!"_

_Marshall almost toppled over with laughter. "Darling, ever since you joined that committee for the protection of endangered species, your vocabulary has certainly expanded."_

_Ilsa, however, didn't feel like laughing. "Seriously, Marshall… these people are all moving in sort of a gray zone and have a…checkered… biography, but this man… if it wasn't such a bad simile, I'd say he's definitely from the dark side."_

_"And it also shows that you're in that movie award committee…"_

_She punched him lightly against the upper arm. "You cannot imply… and then… I want an explanation."_

_"He's strong like you. Level-headed. Chance is reckless, crazy. Interesting, but in the long run he'd drive you up the walls…."_

_"You're just still angry he made you jump into that river." Ilsa was back in the saddle. "Now let's stop talking about other men, I've got you. All bets are off." She bent over to kiss him._

_At that very moment the elevator came to a shuddering halt. For a few seconds nothing happened, then the doors were pried open. Christopher Chance was standing on the other side, looking at them, lopsided smile on his face._

_"It's for you, Mrs. Pucci." He handed her a telephone._

RING RING … RING RING … RING RING

Still half-caught in her dream, Ilsa groped around on her nightstand, looking for the telephone, almost knocking down the bedside lamp. The space on the mattress next to her was painfully empty.

On the other end of the line was the last person she wanted to talk to right now. "Sorry to wake you, Ilsa, but we've got a new client. You wanna come over?"

"Chance…" Ilsa groaned, squinting at her alarm clock seeing it read four-thirty.

"Well, I can tell her to come back later. Hopefully she's still alive then…"

The way he said that she just knew...

"Be there in thirty", she mumbled, only then realizing that she was copying the team's military way of speaking. "And wipe that bloody smirk off your face!"

Great...now he was laughing at her.

The mirror in the bathroom showed her a middle-aged woman without make-up who had gotten too little sleep lately. The tattoo on her back had become such a common element of her body by now, she didn't even notice it anymore.

God, she missed Marshall.

Connie's message was still on the answering machine: "We need to talk, Ilsa."

Yes, they needed to talk. It was time to make a decision.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

A quarter past five in the office. Their client was wrapped in a blanket, shivering on a chair in the conference room. Her hair was curly from having gotten wet and she was wearing some of the extra clothes Ilsa had purchased for clients who needed an impromptu change of attire. Winston had made strong coffee that all of them needed.

All except Chance, that is.

He was annoyingly wide awake and practically bouncing around with energy while Ames was sitting hunched over in her chair, barely finding her coffee mug. She had practically sleep-walked here from the office's guestroom she was still occupying.

Guerrero came in later than Ilsa, with dark spots on his shirt that suspiciously looked like blood and not his, judging from the pattern. He covered them with his jacket before the client could see, but not before Ilsa had gotten a good look at it. Was he taunting her? They were still not on speaking terms.

Sitting down he rummaged around in his pockets and produced a foil wrapped sandwich which he started munching on.

"Hey, don't crumble on the carpet!", Chance admonished him. "I've just vacuumed that."

"A housewives' masterpieces are damned to perish", Guerrero shrugged and kept munching.

"Chance is totally hyper", Ames quietly told Ilsa. "He scrubbed every surface in the kitchen till one o'clock this morning. We've shot people in there and didn't clean up that meticulously afterwards!"

"I think the official term is _nesting_", Ilsa replied, sounding lighter than she was feeling. She still wasn't sure what to make out of the sudden appearance of Ash. With Chance's kid around she was constantly reminded of what could have been and wasn't meant to be. Dreams of her deceased husband being alive and well didn't help either.

"Ms. Milton here is the rising star of American journalism", Winston began, barely stifling a yawn. "She's the author of the award-winning report on the assassination of Czech magnate Bartolomej Ruzicka fourteen years ago."

For the blink of an eye Chance and Guerrero exchanged glances. It was nothing more than a very brief contact, but Ilsa had caught it and she knew them well enough by now to draw her conclusions.

_Oh no. Not another walk down memory lane. _

But she had actually read the article, and there had been no mentioning whatsoever of a mysterious blond assassin, still not apprehended by the police.

"Pretty impressive work you did", Guerrero addressed the client. "You must have had quite a rich inside source to get all that information."

Evelyn Milton took a sip from her coffee, swallowing hard. "Kind of made a pact with the devil to get that story", she nodded. "But since all involved parties are already dead or have disbanded – the organization that ordered Ruzicka's death, the political candidate that benefitted from his demise, the party that backed him up… I didn't face any kind of retaliation. This time however I'm doing research regarding a more recent event and it seems my luck isn't holding."

"Chance rescued her out of her sinking car – someone definitely manipulated the electronics, took over the controls via satellite, locked the doors, sent her diving right into the Bay", Winston explained. "She was already on her way to us, had made contact half an hour earlier, managed to call Chance from her cell phone…"

"Martin Gleason recommended you", Evelyn added. This earned her some raised eyebrows.

"You know Martin Gleason?", Chance inquired.

"I stumbled upon him when I was doing research on Etherton Tech", she explained. "That's the company who moved into the Sentronics building after Sentronics went bankrupt. They claim to be working with polymers, but I found out they're producing substances needed for chemical warfare and selling them off to axis of evil powers. They must have somehow gotten wind of my research…"

"Do you have any proof against them?", Winston asked, already looking for the computer files that contained the information they had collected about the Sentronics building during the Martin Gleason case.

"All I need is a certain memory stick stashed in their safe. If I had that, the article would be rock solid."

"Well, since we've been there before…" Chance looked at the time displayed on the computer screen. "We should be done with this till six pm, shouldn't we?"

"Last time we were there we had to pull an Aunt Linda to get you out again in one piece!" Winston remembered only too well how Guerrero had threatened him, should the whole thing with the informant cover go awry. Judging from Guerrero's face, he remembered, too.

"Yeah, but this time we know our way around and a memory stick is a lot easier to extract than a computer nerd and a goldfish. We could get started at eight."

"Dude… getting a pilot on this short notice…." Guerrero shook his head.

"We won't need a pilot. This time we go in through the front door." Chance was smiling from ear to ear.

The rest wasn't.

"And who will open that door for us?", Winston inquired, more than a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Ilsa of course! And we'll be long finished by six!"

Winston looked at Chance thoughtfully. He was excited, definitely, but in a very odd way. A bit like back in Brussels, when he had dealt with these jeeps, yips or whatever they were called. He was nervous. Well, who could blame him?

Guerrero's cell phone signaled. A text message: _Someone's asking around about u._ Now, in general that wasn't such a disturbing information, all sorts of people asked around about him, clients, enemies, cops, but it was coming from a source Guerrero very rarely heard from. Not at all in the past few years, actually.

It was the guy he had planted in his home town, the godforsaken place where he had spend his so-called childhood, to keep his ears and eyes open.

Guerrero decided that he, too, wouldn't mind if they were done with this by six.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

The people at Etherton Tech were surprised but not in the least suspicious when Ilsa Pucci, chairwoman of the Marshall Pucci Foundation, asked for an impromptu tour of their company, claiming the Foundation was considering doing business with them. Ilsa and Chance, posing as her driver, got into the building's underground garage without any problems. A gatekeeper wanted to see her ID, but that was it.

Gerald Etherton in person, founder and owner of Etherton Tech, an elderly man with glasses, bow tie and a stick, was waiting to welcome Ilsa.

"I was told my car and I would be thoroughly searched", Ilsa told him after introductions were made.

"Ah, Sentronics used to do that, yes. They were kind of paranoid. You should have seen the security measurements that were protecting the building! We shut off half of them – too much energy consumption, and, seriously, it's not that we're producing some kind of new death star or something."

He looked very proud of having been able to make a reference to what he considered up to date cinema.

"Your driver can wait in the cafeteria. It's our weekly cookie day and I think the cook said something about lamb chops for lunch." Mr. Etherton handed Chance a visitor's badge.

"If I could check the vehicle first, Mrs. Pucci? There was this strange noise…." Chance gave the CEO his most innocent smile.

Of course it worked.

"I'll tell the cook to reserve a portion for you", he said. "Now, Mrs. Pucci, what interests you most about polymerization?"

Ilsa's most likely very well-phrased answer got lost when the doors of the garage's elevator hissed shut behind the two of them. Careful to block the security cam's view with his back, Chance bent down and peered underneath the car. "Everything okay, Ames?"

The harrumphing sound coming from the region of the underfloor told him she was.

"I'm really sorry about driving through that puddle."

Grumbling, Ames crawled towards the air duct she was supposed to climb through, using the parked cars as cover.

"I've got your back", Chance announced cheerfully, knocked on the car's hood and walked off.

Lamb chops.

Yummy.

In the cafeteria he couldn't help but be amazed at what a different place this building had become. Had it resembled a futuristic prison camp at his first visit, it felt now a lot more cheerful. People were standing together in groups, chatting, laughing… their badges were loosely attached to their clothing, nobody really paid attention…

When Ames finally opened the air vent to Etherton's office, she almost suffered a heart attack. The whole idea of Ilsa taking a tour around the company was keeping Etherton away from his office. But the leather chair behind his impressive oak desk was occupied!

Only then she realized who was sitting in the chair, polishing off a chocolate chip cookie.

"Is this your idea of a joke?"

Grinning, Chance handed her a piece of paper: "Etherton had the safe's combination hidden behind a photo of his grandchildren."

"_That's_ what I crammed myself underneath a car and then into an air duct for?"

"_You_ talk about crammed", Guerrero chimed in via earpiece from the van where he and Winston were sitting with the client. Apparently the jammer signal had consumed too much energy, too.

"Your jokes about my size are getting old", Winston snarled back.

"Older than you are going to get, according to your latest medical report. You really have to watch your cholesterol, dude."

"You've hacked my…"

Rolling her eyes, Ames opened the safe.

All in all, this was a really easy job. At eleven they were all back at the office, sound and safe and, on Ilsa's part, a lot more knowledgeable regarding polymerization. Evelyn Milton couldn't have been happier.

As Ames handed over the stick, Ilsa's cell phone signaled. She left the conference room to take the call without disturbance.

"As soon as I've got the stick at my office, I'm safe." Evelyn shook hands with Winston.

"We're going to escort you there", Chance told her and nodded at Guerrero to accompany them.

Just then Ilsa came back. "Before you leave, Ms. Milton, I have to make a small request. Since this is a service financed by the Marshall Pucci Foundation we have to meet certain requirements… paperwork, you know… to ensure our funding, we have to hand in evaluation reports. If you would take the time, just a few minutes, and sit down with Ms. Ames here, we'd be really grateful. Ms. Ames, I'm talking about Form T-F-1623-A…"

For a tiny second Ames looked as if she wanted to reply "What the hell are you talking about?", then she caught Guerrero's piercing glance and off she scuttled, returning a short time later with a pile of documents, actually some of the instructions Philippa had written, but their client didn't need to know that.

"So, Ms. Milton on a scale from one to ten, how would you describe the overall office atmosphere…?", she began.

"We probably better leave you alone with this", Ilsa announced and motioned the rest of the team out of the room with a nod.

"What's going on, Ilsa?", Chance asked, the second they arrived in Ilsa's office.

Ilsa took a deep breath. This would very likely spoil Chance's six o'clock plans.

"We've got a new client."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"I had mentioned to Mr. Etherton that we help people nobody else can help", Ilsa explained, trying very hard to look cheerful while speaking. Thanks to the glass walls Ms. Milton could see them gathered in her office. Not exactly an unsuspicious sight. But disappearing from her view might have tipped her off just as well… better pretend they were just chatting, waiting for the formalities to be over.

"He just called and told me that someone stole documents that describe a brand new polymerization technique his company developed in years of research. They were stashed on a memory stick in his safe. To a competing company that information would be worth millions. Its loss might mean bankruptcy for Etherton Tech."

Guerrero wordlessly eased behind Ilsa's desk, switched on her notebook and started typing. No one even bothered to comment on the fact that he apparently knew all her passwords.

"It would fit with the overall atmosphere of the company", Chance nodded. "They didn't make the impression they had something as dangerous as chemical warfare substances to hide."

"On the other hand you rescued Milton from certain death this morning. Someone _did_ manipulate her car and she _was_ threatening to drown in the Bay. Aside from that she's an award winning journalist." Winston shook his head. "Why should she…?"

"Millions of reasons, dude." Guerrero looked up from Ilsa's notebook. "There's no sign at all on her computer at her office that she's working on a story about Etherton."

"I hate to state the obvious, but maybe we should have checked her backstory a little more thoroughly before breaking into a nice old man's company, stealing his property and probably ruining his life's work?" Ilsa was looking sternly at Chance. "I know you're in an emotionally challenging situation right now and this evening is very important for you, but you could have been a bit more…"

Chance didn't like her tone at all. "Now, hang on…"

"Milton _is_ an award winning journalist", Winston repeated, more insistent this time, practically stepping between Ilsa and Chance. "I saw no reason not to believe her, not after the touch and go rescue from the Bay." He put a lot of stress on the "I".

"An award winning journalist who made a pact with the devil to get the story that earned her the award." Chance locked eyes with Guerrero. They were both thinking the same thing.

_A pact with the devil. _

_Oh damn. _

"This is what we're going to do", Chance said and laid his plan out to the rest of the team.

In the conference room Ames was meanwhile running out of evaluation questions. "If you had to describe the team's performance with one word, which would you…?"

Thank God she could finally see movement in Ilsa's office. They were coming back. On the one hand Ames was proud they had left the crucial job of distracting the client to her, on the other hand she was really on tenterhooks what had suddenly gotten into Ilsa.

Chance came in, all smiles. "Paperwork done? Then let's get you to your office." As he led Evelyn out of the room he briefly placed his hand against the small of her back. It looked like a flirty gesture, but Ames recognized the maneuver. He had just placed a tracker on her.

As promised, Chance and Guerrero dropped Evelyn off at her office. Now, if Chance and Guerrero had been held up somewhere with never-mentioned-before surprise paperwork at the last minute, they'd been suspicious, to say the least, but apparently Ms. Milton's instincts weren't very finely tuned.

Or were they?

The first thing she did when she got back to her newspaper's HQ was seek out one of the restrooms. What was she doing in there? Checking her clothes for any kind of bug?

In the back of his mind Chance was still mulling over Ilsa's words, him being in an "emotionally challenging situation". Had this "situation" made him careless? Had he overlooked the obvious flaws in Milton's story because he had been preoccupied? This was not good, not good at all. "What's the average time a woman spends in a bathroom?", he finally asked, his eyes never leaving the display that showed them the tracker's location.

"Too long", Winston snorted via earpiece.

"Trust the guy with neither hair nor make-up to make a sound judgment", Ames grumbled back.

"Maybe she flushed the tracker down the toilet", Guerrero mused. The unmoving red dot on the display wasn't encouraging.

"Ten minutes is not too long", Ilsa and Ames both said in unison.

As if on cue, the dot suddenly started moving again.

Judging from the tracker's signal, Evelyn walked right through her newspaper's office, exited through the back door and waved down a taxi on the other side of the building. It was almost ridiculously easy to follow her, but with "ridiculously easy" they had already gotten burnt once today, so they kept their guard up.

The taxi was heading straight to Fisherman's Wharf. At this time of day one of the most crowded places in the city. Nevertheless, Chance knew immediately whom she was planning to hand the stick over to.

"Hey mate", Guerrero whispered as Baptiste came into view.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Once they had known Milton was playing foul, Chance and Guerrero had pretty much already guessed whom their ex-client was going to meet. There weren't that many people on the face of the earth still breathing oxygen who could have provided her with information on the Ruzicka assassination. The interesting thing was: Baptiste didn't look exactly surprised either.

In fact Chance could have sworn he smiled at him for a brief moment and nodded, in the fashion of a greeting, before starting to run, straight towards Evelyn Milton. Of course Chance started running, too.

What was Baptiste up to? Was he planning to take her hostage? Damn, with all the tourists around, the situation was extremely hard to control and the chances of innocent bystanders getting hurt was pretty high. On the other hand Baptiste knew very well that nothing sent Chance into overdrive faster than innocent lives at stake. Would he risk that?

A couple of feet away from Milton, Baptiste suddenly jumped and tackled her straight into a group of tourists. Damn smart bastard! The ensuing chaos allowed him some room to escape – with the stick, of course, that he had snatched from her while falling.

Chance took up the chase. "He's heading towards Pier 39!"

… … …

Winston and Ames in the van decided to relocate to the garage across the pier, Winston at the steering wheel, Ames in the back, hacking into the traffic cams to keep track of Baptiste. Just as they pulled into a parking bay, a loud yelp, followed by a scream, interrupted them significantly. Winston killed the engine, jumped out of the van and was almost immediately cornered by an elderly lady with a poodle in her arms.

"You almost ran over my poor little Hugo!"

Poor little Hugo was snarling at Winston, baring its rather sharp looking teeth. To Winston's relief, it looked unharmed. He liked animals. "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am", he apologized.

"You better are! How dare you drive like that? Have you ever heard of traffic laws?"

Now, that was something you better shouldn't say to an ex-cop. Winston could take a lot of crap, but questioning his knowledge of the law… "If I may point out, your poodle isn't wearing a leash…"

In hindsight, it was not a good moment to turn into cop mode, but everybody has weaknesses and she had poked right into one of his.

"Are you saying this is my fault?" The old lady had a very loud, high pitched voice that was now taking on the quality of nails raking over a black board.

"Your poodle is very small and doesn't have a distinctive color, it's rather difficult to make out on the dark concrete, so I'd suggest…", Winston replied, trying to calm the waves but still determined to stand his ground.

The woman was making so much noise, they were starting to draw attention. "Your bad driving almost killed my baby and you have the nerve to blame _me_?"

Maybe the poodle had enough of his owner's extremely nerve-grating voice or maybe it shared her opinion on Winston's driving skills. Anyway, it jumped off her arms and darted straight towards Winston, sinking it's teeth deep into his left leg.

"Don't you dare kick at my sunshine!", the old lady yelled at Winston. "I'll call the police and report you for cruelty to animals!"

"Winston? You there?" Chance's voice via earpiece.

"Mr. Winston, I can see the traffic feed on the monitors in the conference room and there's something you might want to know…" Ilsa's voice via earpiece.

"Dude?" Guerrero.

The old lady pulled out her mobile. Winston felt the urge to just scream, and not because the poodle was biting him.

At this very moment the van's door swung open, Ames jumped out and threw one of the dried meat sticks Guerrero kept in the vehicle in the direction of the dog. It let go of Winston's leg and jumped at the treat.

"No, Hugo, no! The doctor said no extra food, you're already overweight!", the lady tried to stop him.

Ames dragged Winston into the van and off they went. "This stays between us", Winston snarled at Ames.

"Mr. Winston?" Ilsa via earpiece again. "There's something on one of the traffic cams that you should really see…"

… … …

With all the people around, a long chase wasn't possible, too many moving obstacles. They ended up in a corner of the Pier, not far from the sea lions, facing each other.

Baptiste couldn't help but smile as he aimed the harpoon at Chance. The fish shop's owner from whom he had snatched it while running past his stall might have used it as decoration, but it looked as if it would work just fine. Would Chance risk finding out?

All around them tourists were walking to and fro, unaware of the two men's standoff.

"Bullets are much faster than a harpoon, Baptiste", Chance calmly stated. He wasn't holding a gun, but nobody knew better than Baptiste that Chance must have hidden one somewhere and could pull it out in no time.

"Draw your weapon, fire it", he replied. "But what if you miss? What if a ricochet bullet hits one of those nice Japanese tourist ladies or that cute kid with the balloon?" Baptiste was using the same strategy he had tried back in Washington, in the subway, after his failed attempt to interfere with the peace talks. Well, it had worked back then, so why not now?

… … …

Ilsa had been right, it was indeed him.

Winston approached the car cautiously. Seemingly its occupant was focusing on a tiny monitor he was holding in his hand, but Winston knew enough about that man to tread with great, great care.

Now he was close enough.

He yanked open the door, pointed his weapon at the occupant's head and… was looking at a heavy-calibered gun pointing at his chest.

"Don't move", Ames told him, stepping towards the car from the other side, gun drawn as well.

The Old Man harrumphed and lowered his gun.

"So we finally meet", Winston said and slumped down on the passenger's seat.

… … …

"Drop the harpoon, Baptiste", Chance said.

"Why should I do that, Junior?", Baptiste smirked.

"Cause you're standing in a puddle, dude", Guerrero said from behind his back. He was holding what looked like a live wire.

Baptiste looked down and saw a small puddle of water stemming from one of the fish stalls. It was separate from the other puddles – if Guerrero threw the live wire into it, nobody else would be effected. Baptiste, on the other hand, would end up as a fried squid ring.

Chance walked over to him and held out his palm. "The stick, please."

Baptiste chuckled in a dry, humorless way. "You realize this is all your fault, Junior?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_This is all your fault, Junior. _

One part of Chance simply wanted to ignore that comment, apprehend Baptiste and drop him off at the nearest police station. A glance at his watch told him that time was pressing. Only a couple of hours left till six o'clock…

The other part, however, maybe the same part that had caused Baptiste and the Old Man not to be too aggressive or too watchful, wanted to hear him out, wanted to know what he was talking about.

"Chance, all we need is the stick, remember?" Winston's voice via earpiece.

"Dude…" There was a warning glint in Guerrero's eyes and the way he dragged out the "u" in "dude" spoke volumes, too.

"Chance, you're not seriously considering to…" From the sound of it, Ilsa was pacing a trail into the conference room carpet.

For a moment, Chance was undecided.

_Only a couple of hours left till six o'clock…_

But then he thought about how the six o'clock event had clouded his judgment already once today. He wasn't going to let that happen again.

"Care to explain?", Chance asked Baptiste.

Collective groan via earpiece, roll of the eyes from Guerrero.

… … …

They decided to use the van to sit down and talk.

"Remember what would have been your next assignment, after the…"

Baptiste hesitated. Instinct told him to tread carefully here. This was not the time to open old wounds. Not with an armed and rather annoyed Guerrero watching his every move. And Junior's business partner, the huge ex-cop, didn't look exactly thrilled with their presence either.

"…the issue at the docks?", he finished the sentence.

Ames couldn't help but wonder at the atmosphere. Winston emitted dark radiation, Guerrero was practically a black hole, but Chance… and the other two… "Calm before the storm" didn't describe it properly. This was more like three tigers in one room, able to kill each other, but not out to kill each other... Her curious side was excited that she was allowed to witness this meeting. Her self-preservation side would have preferred to be with Ilsa right now, watching the events unfold from the safe haven of the office.

"The industrial espionage thing?", Chance frowned.

"Long-term clients of us – paid well and on time, never any hassle. You left and the whole deal with them went awry", the Old Man stated, more than a hint of bitterness in his voice. Ames thought how odd it was that he was talking to Chance but staring at Winston the whole time.

"Was a simple thing – all you would have needed to do was charm that mousy secretary into letting her guard down a little…", Chance mused. He paused, then the ghost of a smirk appeared on his face. "Don't tell me you couldn't pull that off…"

Baptiste's eyes narrowed. "Not everybody appreciates "mysterious" and "intriguing"… she was into that whole bloody knight in shining armor shit…."

"And you couldn't pull it off…"

Was that a teasing sing-song in Chance's voice?

Baptiste clenched his teeth and Chance broadened his smirk, knowing full well what effect it would have on the other man.

"Baptiste!"

"Chance!"

Winston and Joubert had called the younger men to order at the same time. Startled, although they did well at concealing it, they looked each other in the eyes for the first time.

"The clients were very disgruntled when we couldn't get them the information they wanted. In addition to that their attempts at espionage were discovered thanks to a slight… lapse of … us… " Baptiste looked at the floor in a very uncharacteristic gesture of.. shame? Embarassment?

Chance remembered that Baptiste had told him the Old Man hadn't been the same anymore after his departure. Had Joubert blundered in the espionage case? _Joubert?_

"The FBI questioned them", Baptiste continued. "We managed to talk to them first and we came to an agreement… In exchange for keeping quiet about our involvement we owed them a favor… Well, they took their time, but they want to collect it now. They want the information on that stick. If we don't deliver it they'll spill the beans on us."

"This might incriminate you, too, Junior", the Old Man pointed out. "Who knows, maybe that nice FBI friend of yours, Emma Something, who knows where you live and who your friends are, might see this as an opportunity to boost her career… She's very ambitious, isn't she?"

"If I help you deliver that stick, you're back in business, aren't you?", Chance asked, all playfulness gone from his voice.

Now it was Baptiste's turn to smirk. "It's up to you, Junior."

The silence in the van was practically palpable. Ames could see Chance's mind reeling. If he helped the Old Man and Baptiste they'd be able to restart the Old Man's business. He would actively help him to start killing people again. AND Etherton would go bankrupt. On the other hand, if he didn't help them they all might end up on the FBI's most wanted list.

Damn, was Ames glad the decision wasn't up to her.

"We accept." Ilsa's voice via earpiece. "Tell them we accept. We help them fulfill their obligations."

From the look on his face, Chance could tell Guerrero liked Ilsa's decision. Well, it appealed to his philosophy: In a me-or-you-type situation, it was him first. The really surprising thing was that Ilsa had come to the same conclusion. To Chance, it was not that easy. He thought of the lives that were at stake here, the people who would become Joubert's and Baptiste's targets… Nameless faces, fuzzy and blurred sprung up in his mind.

And then one face very clear and distinct: Ash.

With him in the focus of the FBI he'd be unable to maintain contact with his son…

"We're going to help you", Chance told Baptiste and the Old Man. "Under one condition…"

… … …

Mr. Etherton was overjoyed when Ilsa informed him that they had retrieved his memory stick. And then she told him that he needed to do them a favor…

"You want me to do _what_?"

It took a little bit of persuading from Ilsa and Winston, but in the end he agreed, made a copy of the stick and changed a few bits and pieces of the information. Unsuspicious changes that wouldn't catch attention at first, but in the long run, probably after the competing company had already started the production process, would cause major problems and finally result in complete failure.

Etherton was a genius in polymerization. "I don't think they'll be able to trace the problems in the production process back to the information on the stick. The adjustments I made are so subtle, they'll probably attribute it to the equipment they use…"

He was a nice elderly gentleman who didn't want to harm anybody, but they could tell from the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth that he had just found unexpected pleasure in handing over faulty information to his biggest competitor.

Winston volunteered to hand the copy over to Baptiste and the Old Man. "We're even now. If you ever cross his path again, you'll regret it", he told Joubert, pressing the envelope into his hands.

Joubert didn't reply and his face gave away no answer either.

… … …

"A quarter to six, bro, and we're done with everything." Guerrero was the last one staying behind in the office, everyone else had already cleared out to give Chance and Ash, who was set to visit him at six, a bit of privacy.

Chance merely nodded, uncharacteristically quiet and subdued. Guerrero knew what was going on and couldn't help but grin.

"You're good with kids, dude. He's twelve. Order some junk food, play a couple of video games… I've left a copy of the new Transformers movie in your dvd player. You'll have a good time, don't worry."

And off he went, leaving Chance to wait for his son to arrive.

For the first time ever it would be only the two of them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_NO take out junk food. _

_NO video games. _

_NO brainless action movies._

Chance looked up from the note Philippa had handed him before driving away. "Doesn't leave much room for interpretation…" He was a bit at a loss. He so wanted Ash to enjoy the evening, to have fun, but as good as Chance usually was with kids, this was different. With his own son he felt somehow… paralyzed. And now Philippa had practically pulled the rug out from under his feet with her list of rules...

"We could cook something", Ash cautiously suggested.

He looked just as much at a loss as Chance. He had been to the office once before, but back then it had been during the day, with lots of people around, his mother by his side and of course the information that he was meeting _his father_ drowning out all other impressions. But now? He was alone with a man he barely knew … in a very strange place ... this looked like some sort of business premises, not like a home at all.

"You know how to cook?", Chance asked, surprised.

Ah, finally, something to talk about!

"We stayed at hotels a lot and when mom needed to meet a client or something she used to leave me in the kitchen. I helped to clean vegetables and stuff…"

_"Damn brilliant way to keep him safe"_, Chance thought. _"Lots of people around who would notice if anyone tried to take him away by force and a good hiding place, too…."_

"I'm not sure if we've got enough groceries stored to cook a proper meal…" Chance had scrubbed the office squeaky-clean but the idea that Ash might want something other than take-out food hadn't occurred to him at all.

"There was this cook in Mumbai who said with enough dedication you can make a meal out of every…." Ash opened the fridge. He let the sentence trail off. "Uh…"

"If your mom had known what I keep in the fridge she'd probably have insisted on take out", Chance joked and for the first time this evening Ash really smiled at him. To Chance it was as if someone had just turned on a million watt bulb.

Good Lord, his son…

"Well, Chinese take-out isn't really junk food, isn't it?" Now a hint of mischief was glinting in Ash's eyes. "There are vegetables in it after all…"

Chance briefly wondered how wise it was to disregard Philippa's instructions on the very first evening, but on the other hand – the boy needed to eat, didn't he? He decided that he would not budge on the other two rules she had set.

They could have ordered in, but that would have meant another round of desperately trying to find a topic of conversation while stuck at the office's kitchen table, so they took Carmine and went for a short walk down the street, to Chance's regular Chinese restaurant. They talked about what kind of food they both liked and what Carmine's favorite treat was – it carried them all the way to the restaurant and on their way back they discussed the other customers, speculated about where they were coming from and what they might do for a living, judging from their clothes, their hands, the way they moved... Ash had a good eye for details.

Only when they had finished eating the silence between them returned. Chance thought about Philippa's list of rules again… he wanted Ash to be happy. If he felt bored he probably wouldn't want to come back, would he? Maybe if they played only one little game… nothing with guns, only a car race or something in that direction…

"Do you know the rules of Pai Gow?", Ash suddenly asked. "Mom said you spent time in Asia, too."

Now that came out of the blue.

"You know what Pai Gow is?"

"The kitchen hands in Hong Kong used to play it all the time, but…" Ash stopped himself just in time before outright telling him that his mother hadn't allowed him to take part. "It's not a video game", he pointed out.

Well, yes, Pai Gow was not a video game. It was the Chinese version of poker and a favorite pastime of the triads, but it was indeed not a video game.

Chance and Ash looked at each other and came to a silent agreement.

… … …

"What's bothering you?", Baptiste asked the Old Man. Considering how well things had turned out today, he should be in celebratory mood, but instead he was staring off into the distance, thoughtfully swirling his drink around in his glass.

"Did you notice how fidgety Junior was?", Joubert replied.

Of course, this was about Junior. What else? Part of Baptiste wanted to sigh and roll his eyes heavenwards. On the other hand, he had noticed it, too, Junior's unrest, his glances at the watch when he thought nobody was looking…

"Maybe he had a date?"

The Old Man shook his head. "Don't think so. Can't quite put a finger on it, but the way he frowned... he was nervous…excited... a mixture of both..."

"I've heard Guerrero dug around a lot lately", Baptiste mused. "One of his informants made an urgent delivery to the office not long ago... he bragged about how he had managed to get 200 bucks from that Pucci woman although Guerrero had said he'd get only one hundred."

"Maybe we should talk to that informant…", the Old Man mused. "I'd really like to know what Junior was so wired up about."


	8. through a glass darkly

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: This is an altered version of my one-shot "umbrellas". **_

_**~ through a glass darkly ~**_

A job had brought them to the north, where an old cop buddy of Winston's had set up camp. Winston and Leonard had spent their rookie years together on the streets of San Francisco, with the more level-headed, calmer Leonard saving the impulsive, impatient young Winston's ass more than once. It had surprised Winston quite a bit when he had heard Leonard and a partner were offering services in the security sector now, too.

"I'd have never thought you'd leave the force", he told him over a glass of beer.

"Me neither", Leonard replied. "But one day, out of the blue, you meet somebody, you discover you're not that different after all, you start talking a bit and before you know it your life is never the same again."

Winston thought of his first encounter with Chance and could only agree. His life had been ticking a long. Not exactly nicely, with his divorce from Michele, the problems with Broward and all, but there had been a certain rhythm to it, a certain predictability. Then he had met Chance and all predictability had gone out of the window.

"There was a time when I thought umbrellas were harmless…", Leonard mused.

"The metal parts are great for lock picking", Winston nodded.

"Breaking into cars…"

"Redirecting telephone calls…"

"Escaping cold storage rooms…"

"Hot-wiring a bomb…"

"Convincing people that one is an up-and-coming designer and the spokes are modern jewelry", Leonard finished their little list.

"Your partner must be quite a character", Winston smiled knowledgeably. This sounded like Leonard had found his own personal Chance. He was glad for him. Everybody should have a Chance in his life.

They chinked glasses.

Shortly after Leonard received a telephone call. "Looks like a new job has come in", he said. "Was great to see you, Winston."

"Next time you're in the Bay area, let me know. We'll go back to Lucy's…"

"The old fella still hanging in?"

"You bet he is…"

Man, they had been through some shit together.

They said their good-byes.

As Winston stepped out on the street, light rain was falling. It was dark and the sky was obscured with thick gray clouds. He had parked his car a couple of blocks away from the bar. Parking in this city was a bitch. His footsteps echoed ominously on the glistering wet sidewalk. At this hour of the night the world seemed like a deserted place, with no one else outside, but Winston didn't worry about getting robbed. His large frame was usually enough to keep the occasional petty crook away and for those stupid or desperate enough to try anyway, he carried his trusty 45er.

Slowly making his way to the parking space he started chuckling, recalling the conversation he had just had with Leonard. Umbrellas… Yeah, he wished he had one right now… but Guerrero had used his last one to hot-wire that bomb in Houston.

_There was a time when I thought umbrellas were harmless…_

How true, how true.

Suddenly the chuckle in Winston's throat died.

An unbidden but very insistent memory had sprung up in the back of his mind. He tried to shake it off, but it clung to his consciousness like a bat, tiny claws digging deep into his thought process.

What had Leonard said? Umbrellas were also good for convincing people that one was an up-and-coming designer and the spokes were modern jewelry?

About a year ago the police in Denver, where another old buddy of his was captain now, had had to deal with a professional hit. The case was still unsolved. The assassin had pretended to be…

That had to be a coincidence. That couldn't be. NO. It was impossible. Leonard was his friend.

The thought was so unbearable, Winston had to stop and grab a streetlamp. His first impulse was to turn around and walk back to the bar, confront Leonard about it. But he had surely left in the meantime, for a new… _job_.

Heavens.

His next impulse was to call Chance, tell him all about it, confer with him what to do, but why call him? Last time he had seen him and Guerrero they had been ready to go down to the hotel bar, testing Ilsa's tolerance on business expenses. It would be much easier to explain everything to them in person.

Yes. That's what he would do. Another plus: He could be with Guerrero when he started digging around in Leonard's and his partner's business and stop him from obtaining any information that was not relevant to the case.

Good lord, he was already referring to Leonard as a case!

Winston shook his head. The matter would clear up. In a couple of hours, tops, unless Guerrero and Chance had hit the bar hard, but Winston doubted it. Their job had ended well, the client was sound and safe, no need to drown unpleasant memories. On the other hand, Ilsa was not around… Maybe they had decided to take advantage of the situation. When the cat's away…

He decided he needed to get back to the hotel as fast as possible. Fiercely determined now, he pushed himself off the streetlamp, set foot on the road…

Brakes screeched.

A young driver violently jerked at his steering wheel.

His father's car swerved, doing a half turn around, but it was to no avail. The rear hit Winston.

Hard.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: The padding part was provided by PocketSevens, as always, THANK YOU for your input!**_

"Not sure that was wise, dude." Guerrero took a sip from his drink.

"Why not? I don't know his likes and dislikes yet, so what's wrong with telling him he can wish whatever he wants for his birthday?" Chance was genuinely puzzled.

Guerrero snorted dismissively. "Word of advice, bro. No matter how harmless it sounds, you tell it to a kid one day it comes back to bite you in the ass."

"Thank you, Mr. Supernanny."

"Learned the truth of it the hard way…"

Now Chance was intrigued.

"Told him whatever his mom cooks deserves to be eaten…" Guerrero took another sip from his drink.

"And…?"

"Had to eat myself through two plates of dry as dust Liver Loaf. Afterwards I considered asking her for the recipe… professional interest, you know…"

Both Chance and Guerrero chuckled.

"You ever considered getting back together again?" This was one of the questions Chance would have never dared to ask when completely sober, but since these weren't their first drinks tonight…

Guerrero shook his head. "Not a good idea…"

… … …

"You look disappointed", Ilsa told Connie. They were having dinner at one of San Francisco's finest restaurants, but neither of them paid any attention to the food.

"Disappointed? Ilsa, that's a euphemism if I ever heard one! I genuinely thought you'd tell me your San Franciscan escapade was finally over and you'd be returning full time to your duties with the board. Instead you tell me you want to give up your position as chairwoman and work full time with these people!"

"With the assurance that the board will keep financing the team", Ilsa reminded her. "And against a right of veto regarding all major board decisions."

"That is not the point!" Connie threw down her napkin. "I figured you needed some time to get over Marshall's demise and this team, as a diversion, would help taking your mind off things for a while. But what you're now doing is discarding everything you've accomplished so far! You are throwing yourself headfirst into a completely different life, a very _dangerous_ new life, if I remember the events at the opera correctly. Are you really sure about this, Ilsa?"

"I cannot constantly alternate between two worlds, Connie, and I've made a decision. The board will be happy. They wanted to get rid of me anyway and this appears to me as the compromise we could all live with."

"I have the feeling I'm losing you." Connie suddenly looked very sad. "First Marshall, now you. Ilsa, please think this through one more time."

In an unconscious gesture, Ilsa took the broad silk scarf off that so far had covered her upper back region. Now all the world could see that Ilsa Pucci was wearing a Japanese Kanji tattoo on her shoulder blade. "I've made up my mind, Connie. No more dithering."

… … …

"Can't get Ilsa on the phone." Chance stared out of the taxi window. The drive to the hospital seemed to take forever.

"No surprise there", Guerrero growled. "She's having dinner with her sister in law. Wining and dining at Fraternelli's. Guess she's too busy enjoying the evening to take a look at her phone."

"When will you finally stop spying on her?" Random question, sounding a lot harsher than Chance intended it to be. The nurse had only said Winston had been admitted after a car accident, no word on his condition. He wished he could have driven to hospital himself, he'd surely have made it there faster, but with the amount of alcohol they had consumed? Guerrero had called a taxi even before Chance had finished his conversation with the ER nurse.

"All that extra padding has to be good for something, Chance." Guerrero's idea of offering comfort. "What about Ames, did you get hold of her?"

"She's keeping an eye on Ash."

At Guerrero's questioningly arched eyebrow, Chance continued: "Only for his first few days at the new school. He's been homeschooled all his life, this is all unknown territory to him…"

"You're such a mother hen…"

The brightly illuminated hospital came into view in the distance and they both fell silent.

… … …

While his friends approached the hospital reception desk and braced themselves for whatever news they would be told, Winston's mind slowly slipped further into darkness, skipped measures of time and distances, added a few twist here and there and finally ended up deep in the past, seven years ago.

Junior was sitting on a park bench, randomly throwing seeds for the birds at his feet. It had been a matter of seconds. If Katherine Walters had told him she hadn't known the guy at the docks just a few seconds earlier, she'd still be alive. But he had already poured the poison in her cup and she had taken a large sip before he could stop her.

Beyond rescue.

He had killed a truly innocent person.

Well, it wouldn't happen again. From now on he would take a much closer look at his assignments.

The birds suddenly flew up, fled to the nearest tree. Guerrero took a seat next to him.

"Still moping?"

"No, making plans."

"Plans." Guerrero arched his eyebrows. "Care to share?"

"I'm going to take over the business. But there'll be a couple of changes in philosophy. There won't be a second Katherine Walters."

Guerrero rolled his eyes. Did Junior really still waste his time and energy on contemplating whether the people they took out deserved their fate or not? Who cared? This was work. Sometimes it was fun, sometimes it wasn't. But on the other hand, he wasn't really surprised. This was what made Junior Junior.

"And how exactly are you planning to make sure of that?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Junior's mouth and Guerrero knew he was about to suggest something crazy.

"I'm going to bring somebody in. Somebody who works for _me_, checks the targets' backgrounds, makes sure the Old Man tells me everything, not just the bits and pieces he finds suitable. You'd be perfect for that, but I know you've got your own projects going, so I've thought of somebody else… There was this cop, Laverne Winston..."

_"And here we go…"_, Guerrero thought. "The one that was supposed to protect Katherine Walters?"

"I dug around a bit. He's drinking it away at the moment, but he's got a lot of potential. I liked him."

"Dude", Guerrero groaned.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Finding Laverne Winston wasn't difficult.

"Tough day at work?", Junior asked and took a seat next to him at the bar.

Winston was drunk, but not drunk enough not to recognize him. His hand went to his 45er. Junior merely shook his head, then nodded in the direction of a table near the door where Guerrero had set up camp.

"Friend of mine", he told Winston.

Guerrero had one hand in the pocket of his jacket. A rather unambiguous gesture.

"What do you want?", the cop slurred. He was really pretty wasted.

"Came for a chat." Junior tilted his head, then paused, frowning. "You're trembling", he said.

"It's nothing." Winston made an effort to hide his shivering hands.

On closer examination, his knuckles were grazed and the area around his left eye looked like it was slowly swelling shut.

"You've been in a fight", Junior realized. "You shouldn't be drinking after you received a blow to the head. What if you've got a concussion?"

"Go ahead and shoot me or get lost."

Junior made a decision. "Come on, you've had enough for one night." With another nod of his head he dismissed Guerrero.

Winston vaguely realized that the assassin who had killed Katherine Walters dragged him off the bar stool, paid his bill and escorted him out into the open, where he took away his car keys and stuffed him in the passenger's seat. "I live in…"

"I know", Junior stated flatly.

At Winston's apartment, the assassin made him a cup of coffee, tended his grazed knuckles and made sure he cooled the swollen eye.

Winston wondered if he was already clear enough again to reach for his weapon. Then he realized his gun was gone.

"It's in the hallway", Junior said. "Hear me out for a moment, will you?"

Then he made Winston an offer. Given his still intoxicated state, he kept it to the basics, but he did put emphasis on the fact that he could need a man with Winston's qualities. "Never forget, everybody deserves to die in the eyes of someone", he explained. "When we are called in the dices have already fallen. Usually the targets have brought it upon themselves."

_Usually_... He tried not to think of Katherine Walters.

"And I wouldn't have to shoot anyone?", Winston asked when he was finished.

"Only one", Junior said.

"Why that?"

"Let's call it a precautionary measure."

"Thanks but no thanks." Winston shook his head and regretted it immediately. Searing pain shot from his skull down his spine. "You're under arrest, by the way."

"Think about it." Junior placed a calling card with nothing but a telephone number in front of him and got up.

Winston kept sitting at his kitchen table for a long time after he was gone, flipping the card over and over. Him changing sides? What a ridiculous idea.

His knuckles still hurt from the punches he'd exchanged with the murder suspect he had had to let go on a technicality, because his superior, Broward, had blundered. Damn, they'd put him on suspension again.

The telephone rang. Groaning, Winston got up and took the call. It wasn't very long. Bad news calls never take long.

The murder witness, the one that had identified the suspect and signed the statement that greatly incriminated him but couldn't be used in court because of that technicality, was dead. Someone had suffocated her with a plastic bag. After cutting her tongue out.

The young woman's face appeared in his mind and the last conversation he had had with her replayed in his head. "With this statement the bastard will end up behind bars for the rest of his life", he heard himself say.

"If he ever finds out I testified against him, he'll kill me", she had timidly replied.

"Don't worry, you're safe. He won't get out of prison ever again", Winston had told her and reassuringly squeezed her hand.

She had trusted him, for heaven's sake!

Rubbing his fingers together now, almost frantically, as if he was trying to wipe the haptic memory away, he went to get the bottle of scotch he kept in his bedroom for occasions like this. He poured himself a drink but didn't lift it to his lips. Instead he stared at it, stared at the brownish liquid.

It would always be like this, wouldn't it? He had told his superiors they could not, under no circumstances, let that man go. They had let him go.

Because of a technicality.

Caused by a colleague he couldn't trust, mildly put.

It would always be like this. Restrictions. Incompetent superiors. Corrupt co-workers. Dead innocents.

Unless…

The calling card on his kitchen table came to his mind again...

That night he found no sleep.

"Was that the cop?" Guerrero asked as Junior put the phone down.

Junior grinned. "Let's find the sleazebag that killed his murder witness."

"For the precaution?" It wasn't really a question. Guerrero seemed to be in a pensive mood. "You realize if he screws up you'll have to shoot _him_, don't you?"

Junior slowly nodded. "Let's hope he has thought this through carefully."

Guerrero didn't look convinced.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

A man his size, people always thought, slept like a grizzly bear in hibernation. But actually Winston had a very light sleep. So light that the faintest of noises could wake him up. The soft click of his back door lock, for example, as it was being picked by expert hands.

At first he thought his hearing had deceived him, but then he perceived a couple of silent, silent, very silent steps down the corridor that led to his bedroom. Quickly he drew his 45er.

"Hold it." A familiar voice, surprisingly close, on the other side of the bed, by the window. The assassin.

"Don't shoot, it's us. I'm going to switch on a light now. Just keep your hands away from the trigger."

_Us?_

The thin beam of a flashlight revealed another hand holding a gun at close range to Winston, aiming straight at his forehead. It belonged to the gaunt, rather small man Winston had seen at the bar, the one the assassin had referred to as a friend. They were in a standoff position: Winston was pointing his gun straight at the stranger's chest.

"Not bad, dude", the stranger said.

"What the hell…?" Winston slowly tucked his gun away, so did the haggard-faced man. He reminded Winston of a ferret and his cold blue eyes gave him the creeps. Another assassin, that was for sure.

"Get up, we're going on a ride." The blond assassin threw a collection of clothes at him.

"What? Why?"

"Tonight's the night, dude."

Winston's heart felt as if suddenly something very cold had touched it. The precautionary measure… they wanted him to shoot someone to make sure he was really in it and not spying for his police buddies. A murder would chain him to their world, forever.

"Couldn't you have..?" Winston clumsily clambered out of bed.

"What, called ahead? So that you could set up surveillance and built a nice trap for us?" Calling the gaunt man's hostility "thinly veiled" would have been a major exaggeration. His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

"Why can't I wear my own clothes?" Winston was surprised to find they had chosen garment and shoes exactly his size.

"Just to be on the safe side. Hiding a tracker somewhere to catch me red-handed, that would be quite tempting, wouldn't it?" The blond assassin smiled at him just like he had at the bar, when they had first met and he had posed as Assistant DA.

A damn disarming smile. Put you at ease no matter how hard you tried to keep your guard up.

"I don't even know your name." Winston wasn't even sure why that suddenly mattered to him.

"We'll have a beer afterwards. Then we'll make the introductions." The assassin handed him a 45er, not his, and a silencer. "Leave your watch at home. You won't need it."

In the car the gaunt man received a telephone call. "This is all you came up with?", he snarled after listening for a moment.

His voice was so cold, Winston once again felt an icy shiver run down his spine.

What in the world was he doing with these people? He should arrest them, for heaven's sake!

_So that they can get out on a technicality three hours later?_, a sarcastic little voice in his head asked seemingly innocently.

Goddamnit. Winston had the feeling that wherever he turned, his next step would send him stumbling into an abyss.

"That's not what I'm paying you for, dude", gaunt man unemotionally informed the caller. A simple, short sentence, but the threat in it was unmistakable. "Dig harder." He cut the connection.

"Your mark", the blond man said and threw him a black and white photo. Winston's eyes widened as he recognized the person. Now, _that_ was a surprise…

Blond man smiled.

They were going to visit his murder suspect. The one with the technicality. The one who had cut the witness' tongue out before…

Winston wasn't completely sure how he felt about this, but a part of him definitely couldn't wait to get his hands on the bastard.

They drove to a dilapidated apartment house in a run-down neighborhood and went in through the backdoor. It was late at night, the corridors were deserted. They could hear TVs blare behind the chipped wooden doors and through the paper thin walls, rap and hip hop music, here and there sickly sweet wafts of marijuana smoke… Winston had been to houses like these more often than he cared to remember. No one would hear the single shot of a gun with a silencer screwed on.

And it would only be a single shot. Winston had already decided on that. A single, well-placed bullet to the forehead, as painless as possible. He'd seen dozens of examples of that in the morgue and he was a good shot. He should be able to pull it off.

Too good for the monster? Maybe. But Winston wasn't planning to become a monster himself.

A very faint, timid voice somewhere in the back of his head asked him whom he was fooling here. _Pull the trigger and you've crossed a line you can never come back from._

The ease with which the smaller assassin picked the lock of the apartment was frightening. They found the mark sitting in an armchair in front of the TV, watching football. He was half in the bag, an array of empty beer bottles was piled up next to his chair.

Winston drew the gun. Change of plans. He wouldn't shoot him in the forehead, the back of his head was a much easier target. The mark would never see it coming and Winston wouldn't have to look him into the eyes. He released the safety catch, aimed and…

He couldn't do it. This was against everything he had ever sworn, he had ever fought for. It was one thing to kill somebody in self-defense, during a struggle or to save a hostage. This here was a totally different story. This was cold-blooded murder.

No. This was not him.

He slowly let his hand with the weapon sink downwards.

The blond man suddenly looked very sad.

The gaunt man shrugged. "I warned you, dude", he told the blond one, drew his own weapon, and, with one fluid movement, aimed and shot Winston.

Right between the eyes.

Wordless scream on his lips, Winston jerked upright and lashed out at the hands that wanted to restrain him.

"Dude! Calm down! You're in a hospital, you've had an accident, you're a bit rattled, but you'll be okay. Now stop thrashing around, you'll fall out of bed and I don't think the hospital has a winch at hand strong enough to get you back in."

Guerrero expected a "wiseass" or some other reply in that direction, but instead Winston simply stared at him, eyes wide with terror.

"Winston?"

Winston's eyes found focus on Guerrero's right hand sleeve. It was sporting dark red spots. Guerrero smiled. "Had a little chat with the driver of the car that knocked you down… about speeding on dimly lit streets in the rain … don't think he'll do it again."

"Where's Chance?" Winston croaked.

As if on cue, the door opened and in stepped Chance. "Welcome back to the land of the living", he said, seeing that his friend was awake.

Winston struggled to get hold of his hand and squeezed it tight, making absolutely sure that it was real.

Frowning, Guerrero watched the scene. The smile on his face was gone, replaced by an expression of indifference.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Big thank you to niagaraweasel for all her help!**_

"I need to talk to you."

The emphasis Winston put on the "you" while addressing Chance wasn't lost on Guerrero. "Gonna grab some fresh air", he muttered and left.

Chance was genuinely puzzled, but Winston seemed so shaken and obviously needed to get something off his chest, he decided not questioning Winston's behavior right now.

Aside from that he was way too relieved that his friend was still breathing. Winston could have asked for a nude fertility dance and he would have happily performed it for him.

Guerrero indeed felt like he could do with a breath of fresh air, so he walked out into the hospital park. Night was falling again, deep dark misty night, like yesterday no stars and more rain to come. Unbelievable, except for his chat with the driver he'd spent the whole day indoors, waiting for extra large Sleeping Beauty to wake up. He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and switched it on.

About fifty missed calls from Ilsa, not to mention the text messages. He didn't even need to read them. Of course she was shocked, concerned, terribly sorry and all that other useless stuff. With a flick of his thumb he deleted all of them.

Fact was, when they had tried to reach her she had been unavailable. _Dinner with Connie. _If they had really needed her backup… This called for a lesson. He smiled. Teaching Ilsa was always fun. He'd think of something creative…

What was missing from his list of calls and messages, however, was news from the source in his hometown. _You think ignoring me is a good idea?_, Guerrero texted him, then decided Chance and Winston had had enough quality time together and walked back to the hospital room.

To his utter surprise Chance and Winston were waiting for him in the hospital corridor, Winston fully dressed. "Dude…?"

"I know I've got a concussion, a couple of half-cracked ribs and a beginning cruciate rupture", he snarled. "Try and stop me from leaving."

"I'm all for vivid demonstrations, dude, but if this is an attempt to show Chance what he's usually putting you through…"

"Shut up." Winston turned and started staggering towards the hospital exit. Chance cautiously steadied him.

"Restraining him wouldn't be too complicated, you know", Guerrero told him under his breath. "With a little incentive we might even get a nurse to provide us with the proper equipment…"

"You think walking out of here is unreasonable?", Chance replied. "Wait till you hear what he's got to say."

… … …

"Step one", Winston said after having given Guerrero the briefest of explanations. "We make sure Leonard really switched sides. Step two, we find out what this new job is about. Step three, we save their mark and put a stop to whatever they're doing."

Chance, at the steering wheel, shook his head. "Winston…"

Guerrero was a lot more vocal. "You forgot you're not a cop anymore, dude? We protect our clients, but we don't do that vigilante stuff. We go down that road, we end up chasing our allies in no time. Whatever this Leonard is doing is not our business." His cell phone signaled. Ah, finally, the guy from his hometown.

"This is all you came up with?", he snarled after listening to him ramble for a moment. An Irish cop was asking around for him, what the hell was he supposed to make out of that?

Breathing heavily, Winston balled his hands into fists.

"That's not what I'm paying you for, dude", Guerrero calmly but coldly informed the caller. A simple, short sentence, but the threat in it was unmistakable. "Dig harder." He cut the connection.

"Winston, you okay?" Chance was just about to turn the car around and haul Winston's ass back to the hospital no matter what – he had Guerrero as backup, after all – when Winston spoke again.

"Chance, if we're not doing this, that's it."

Winston could have pointed a gun at Chance's head just as well.

For a moment glacial silence reigned, then Chance jerked the steering wheel around and brought the car to a screeching halt at the side of the road.

"I give you the benefit of just having survived a car accident…"

"I'm serious, Chance. You've dragged all of us to Latin America to help Maria _twice_, not to mention your Old Man/araña/Baptiste escapade a couple of months ago and don't even get me started about Harry! This is important to _me_ for a change and if you're not with me in this…" Winston's hands were still balled into fists.

Chance looked at his friend, took in the bruises on his face, the beads of sweat forming on his forehead…"Guerrero, you think you can find out more about Leonard's business?", he asked with a hard edge in his voice.

"For you, bro, always…", Guerrero replied darkly.

… … …

The plan involved Winston getting physically involved. Chance made it very clear that he wasn't going to have any of that.

"Leonard and I have been friends for decades", Winston was just as determined as he was. "I owe him this much."

Guerrero snorted dismissively.

"Not that _you_'d know any of that." Winston eyed Guerrero coldly. He had spent half the night tossing and turning, telling himself it had all been just a dream, but truth to be told, the Guerrero in his dream hadn't been all that different from the Guerrero he knew. That telephone call he had received in the car on the way back from the hospital…

"You're sending him to jail", Guerrero replied, just as coldly. "Some friend you are."

... ... ...

It turned out time was pressing. According to the information Guerrero had been able to recover, the job was supposed to go down that very night. Chance caved in. Guerrero would try and get Leonard's partner, Chance would take care of the mark and Winston would confront Leonard.

Making contact with a client who doesn't know he's a client is always complicated. People don't like getting bad news, they tend to ignore what seems too outlandish to believe – so guess what happens when you tell someone he's on the wrong side of a contract killing?

They contacted the mark's wife to get an ally. If she believed her husband was in mortal danger, chances were he'd believe it, too. Or at least he'd pretend to believe it so she'd shut up. Unfortunately it turned out he had just left her, only two days ago – when she opened the door her face was all red and puffy. "I still don't know why…", she sobbed.

She wasn't of much help, but at least she could help them locate him.

"Now, don't freak, you don't know me, but hear me out, there's something very important you need to know", Chance told the mark when they finally found him in a remote mountain cabin.

At this very moment a bulled whizzed past them. Chance lunged forward and covered the mark with his body. "Someone hired an assassin to kill you."

In the background gunshots could be heard. Guerrero had opened fire on Leonard's partner.

The mark, buried underneath Chance, stared at him wide-eyed. "Well, yes, of course. I know."


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Sorry for the delay and the probably not so great quality of this chapter – RL is a bit demanding at the moment. Niagaraweasel did her best to shape this into something readable, THANK YOU!**_

"You _know_? Care to explain?"

"None of your business."

Chance took a deep breath. "I've just put my body between you and a bullet, our faces are so close that I know what you had for dinner last night – word of advice, garlic doesn't only turn vampires away – and I'm currently holding you in a position that's usually reserved for people with much softer parts. Not sure about you, but to me it feels like we should re-think that whole "none of your business"-thing."

The mark looked at him with watery blue eyes. "You're suffocating me", he complained.

"Suddenly you're afraid to die?" Chance shifted his weight and put a little more pressure on his thorax.

"Not like this, shouldn't be like this…" The man started gasping.

_Not like this?_ Chance rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you…?" This was such a bad cliché…

"I hired a contract killer… insurance payments are higher for murder than for natural causes."

Cliché, but unfortunately true. Guerrero used to call these cases "the common sense idiots". "Idiots" was a bit harsh for Chance's taste, but more often than not these people realized at the very last moment they had a lot to live for – talk about practicing one's first aid skills…

"What is it, unemployment, divorce, illness, lost a loved one, general weariness with life?" Chance let go of his chest.

"Autoimmune disease. Doctors can't do anything about it."

Chance sighed. He felt sorry for that man, of course he did, but in his experience hiring an assassin to do the job always involved major unforeseen complications. "With that diagnosis, don't you think somebody from the insurance company will catch on?"

The man bit his lips, a very clear sign of a bad conscience.

"Oh no. You didn't…"

He said nothing. His face, however, spoke volumes.

"Did you also hire these people to terminate the doctor who diagnosed you?"

A timid nod.

_Here we go…_

Chance groaned.

"Please tell me you were supposed to die first…"

To his enormous relief, the mark nodded. Good. Since Guerrero was taking care of Leonard's partner outside and Winston was confronting Leonard right about now, the doctor was safe.

It didn't even occur to Chance that one of his friends might get in trouble and, due to some mishap, fail to hold up his end of the stick.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"My family, the house…"

"And what about your doctor's family?"

Chance wasn't a religious man himself, but in these cases he wished people were a little more god fearing nowadays – for things like that you go to hell, no matter the faith, and thus you don't do it. Well, everything has a price, even the Enlightenment.

"What's going to happen now?", the man asked.

At this very moment, Chance's cell phone – not his regular, just a burner – rang. He looked at the display and handed the phone to the former mark. "It's your wife. She knows a contract killer was after you. We told her when we were trying to find you. I suggest you explain the situation to her."

Winston, meanwhile, was having a heart-to-heart talk of his own. Finding Leonard hadn't been difficult – his role was the back up part, he was on sentinel duty, making sure nobody interfered.

"Should have known you'd figure it out", Leonard said, slowly turning to face Winston. The weapon in Winston's hand didn't seem to bother him at all. "It was the comment about the designer, wasn't it? Hotheaded and subtle as a concussion, but brains… always had to give you that."

Winston tried very hard not to think about the times Leonard was referring to. They shared a lot of history. "I'm going to haul your ass into custody", he said, working very hard to keep the quiver out of his voice.

"You are not a cop anymore", Leonard replied dryly.

"Doesn't mean I can't tell right from wrong. There's good guys and there's bad guys. You've become a bad guy."

"Says the man who's friends with Guerrero." Leonard chuckled at Winston's shocked expression. "I've done my homework, Winston."

It took Winston a moment to reply. "Guerrero is a necessity, not a friend", he finally said.

Now Leonard was openly laughing. "Ah, I see, he came with the package, right? The same package that included your friend Christopher Chance, aka Junior – my partner worked with him a couple of times…"

"Chance has changed his ways."

"Are you really sure that's why you're with him? "Isn't it more that you saw something in him to begin with, that you felt at peace around him, that you sensed this is someone you want to have at your back in  
>a fight? And that you later rationalized your decision with that whole "he has changed his ways" shit?"<p>

Leonard's voice had become low and dark.

"I never understood the meaning of friendship till I ran into a certain someone. Is he a bad guy? Yes. Do I care? Hell no."

Leonard turned and started walking away, in the direction of where they had heard gunshots earlier.

He didn't run.

He just left.

And Winston did nothing but stand there, stunned, frozen to the ground.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

The moment the partner shot at the mark Guerrero knew where he was hiding and opened fire. It was returned, from basically the same spot as before. Guerrero aimed and pulled the trigger again –

Nothing.

No reply.

This could mean one of three things: Either he had hit the partner and he was lying dead or injured on the ground OR the partner had turned tail and run OR he was pretending to be dead, injured or gone and waiting somewhere in the darkness to get back at Guerrero.

Whatever it was, Guerrero had to go and check. Chance and Winston were out there taking care of the mark and Leonard, it was his job to watch their backs.

"Taking a look at the backyard", he told the others via earpiece.

None of them replied.

Not necessarily a bad sign, but all in all Guerrero was on edge this evening. Not the nervous kind of "on edge", he was never nervous, nervousness was useless, it clouded your mind and caused potentially lethal mistakes – it was more the tense kind of "on edge".

Truth was, he didn't like this. At all. And if not for Chance, he wouldn't be in it. Had he believed in such things, he'd said this screamed bad karma. Winston had forced Chance into this job, for reasons that totally beat him…

Thinking of Winston telling Chance he'd leave, shouldn't they put a stop to Leonard's activities, made his stomach churn with anger. When had he last been so angry with Winston?

Swift as a cat Guerrero made his way towards the spot where the partner had been hiding and just as alert he observed his surroundings. But in the back of his mind, a memory almost gone from his conscience mind lifted its head.

Ah, the Niagara Falls job… Very shortly after they had started working together a job had brought them to Canada.

It almost broke them apart, threatened to nip the whole security business thing in the bud before it really started.

Chance had the attacker cornered, was ready to dispose of him, right into the goddamn Falls, in an act that was really more or less self-defense, when Winston interfered with a goddamn "Nobody deserves to die" – reminder. Chance caved in and let the man live. They tied him up – yeah, granted, he, Guerrero tied him up – but a short time later the thug managed to escape and in the process actually disposed of Chance, not wasting a single thought on something as ridiculous as gratefulness.

Thank God it was _Chance_ they were talking about. After fifteen very long minutes they found him dangling from some tree root, high above the swirling, foaming water.

Good for Winston, since Guerrero had decided, shouldn't they find Chance, he'd personally make a barrel big enough to accommodate the walrus and push him down the Falls.

He had now reached the spot where the partner must have been hiding. No one in sight.

Pity.

But of course, why should this have been easy?

From Guerrero's point of view Winston had kind of lost it ever since he had woken up after that accident. Ilsa had suggested admitting him to an expensive private clinic and have him checked up thoroughly and Guerrero actually agreed with that.

That's how far things had come. He was agreeing with Ilsa.

A soft rustle in the bush a few feet from him, barely more than a brush of the wind, was enough to focus all of Guerrero's senses completely on the moment. He dropped to the ground, rolled over and fired at the bush.

This time the partner really turned tail, but Guerrero went after him. There was no way he'd let him go. When they had planned all this, Winston of course had ruled that they'd hand both, his buddy and his partner, over to the cops, but Guerrero had come to a decision of his own.

He'd kill the partner, no matter what. For people like them death penalty was practically mandatory. Sitting in a cell like a caged animal, waiting to be put down?

Call it an act of mercy, Guerrero-style.

Guerrero brought the partner down a few feet behind the bush. He pushed him face forwards into the ground, yanking his right arm backwards to breaking point while at the same time retrieving a combat knife from a sheath at his ankle.

Maybe the partner recognized the sound the blade made when Guerrero pulled it past the leather, or maybe he was sensing what Guerrero was planning, anyway, he did something very desperate and unlike popular belief, desperate acts sometimes work: He bucked upwards, rolled over, his arm broke, but he was free from Guerrero's iron grip again.

Guerrero, however, managed to turn while being thrown off the partner's back and with one fluid motion cut his Achilles heel. No more running, definitely not.

His opponent cried out in what must have been unbearable pain – the shattered shoulder, the severed heel. The only thing that kept him from passing out was the adrenaline pumping through his system.

Adrenaline that caused him to, with all his might, make one last attempt to defend himself while Guerrero was going for the final move, a single well-placed cut along his throat. He'd bleed to death in under a minute.

Guerrero darted forward, the partner threw up his arms, tried to grab Guerrero's wrist…

It's highly unlikely that any of the two struggling men heard the click of a gun's safety catch being released, but they both sensed that they were not alone anymore.

Leonard had arrived.

… … …

Winston watched Leonard leave and only after he was out of sight realized he was walking in the same direction Guerrero had been heading.

Without a single thought of hesitancy, Winston dashed after him.

… … …

The scene Winston found in the backyard was tumultuous, but not unclear: Guerrero was ready to kill the partner, Leonard was ready to kill Guerrero to protect his partner…

… Winston shot Leonard.

The second Guerrero heard the gun go off and realized the bullet wasn't meant for him, he slit the partner's throat. Wiping blood off his face, he slowly staggered to his feet, only then understanding that not Chance but Winston had saved his life.

"Not bad, dude", he said, wiping blood off his glasses.


	15. only a look and a voice

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ only a look and a voice ~**_

_Not bad, dude…_

Three little words, but they kept ringing in Winston's mind, shrill, like alarm bells. Along with _That's not what I'm paying you for, dude. _

Exactly the same words as in that awful dream. Exactly.

The image of Guerrero wiping Leonard's blood off his glasses didn't help either.

The marks of his physical injuries were long gone, Leonard and his partner were buried and the rest of the world seemed to have moved on, but Winston kept mulling everything that had happened up north over and over.

Leonard's words had left a wound on him – Winston pictured it as a deep slash – far worse than anything the car accident had caused.

_Are you really sure that's why you're with him? Isn't it more that you saw something in him to begin with, that you felt at peace around him, that you sensed this is someone you want to have at your back in a fight? And that you later rationalized your decision with that whole "he has changed his ways" shit?_

Could Leonard be right? How far was he willing to go for Chance? Winston thought of the Philippa-torture-incident and realized – all the way.

_Ilsa _had stepped in to stop Guerrero, not he. Because Chance's well-being had been on the line and when it came to Chance's well-being…

Good Lord. For the first time ever he had a vague idea of what had driven Chance to Nepal.

Leonard had held up a mirror, right to his face.

The realization hit Winston so hard, when the telephone rang, it made him jump.

… … …

Chance, coming back from his hated morning jog, was surprised to see Ilsa's retreating backside when the elevator's doors slid open. As usual, he liked what he saw: The fine curve of her neck, the elegant shape of her body and her legs, ah, her legs… Ilsa undoubtedly was a beautiful woman.

"Aren't you in a bit late today?", he asked, lightly placing his palm on the small of her back. "What about your usual the early bird catches the worm-attitude? Are we finally having a bad influence on you?"

"I'm sorry, but I think you're confusing me with Ilsa."

Chance almost did a step backwards. "I'm sorry, I…" He blinked. The woman in front of him could have won a doppelganger contest. Granted, her jaw line was a bit softer, her skin was lighter and all in all her face seemed rounder, not as Burmese cat like as Ilsa's…the voice, although British accented, too, was not quite right… but nevertheless she could have easily passed as the famous billionaire.

"Don't worry, that happens all the time. Ilsa and I went to boarding school together and the teachers kept confusing us till graduation day. I'm Shannon, a friend of Ilsa's and, if I'm not mistaken, your next client, Mr. Chance." She looked him up and down, briefly, but very deliberately. "Looks like Ilsa didn't promise too much", she smiled, tongue-in-cheek.

Half-shrugging his shoulders Chance was just about to form a playful reply that involved showing off his dimple – hey, a good relationship with the clients was important, wasn't it? – when Winston walked in, pouring over a folder while approaching them.

"Philippa just called. She asked if she could bring by Ash sometime this weekend. Apparently there's some kind of school problem she thinks you're better at solving." Winston looked up from the folder, saw the new client and was just as stunned as Chance.

At the mentioning of Ash, however, Chance's focus shifted immediately. "School problem? What kind of school problem?"

"Didn't say. But you know her opinion on not homeschooling Ash anymore. My guess is she found some grist for her mill…" Winston couldn't help but stare at Shannon. Somewhere in the back the click-clack of expensive high heels announced the arrival of the real Ilsa Pucci.

"I see you've already met my dear friend Shannon Dunne." Ilsa and the other woman hugged. "You've got a new hairdo!"

"A friend suggested it", Shannon laughed. "Apparently you like it." Ilsa's hair was cut almost identically. "This reminds me of our last Yule ball at the boarding school – I wore the same long green dress you did, so you could secretly sneak away with…"

"Ms. Ames, another member of my team, is already waiting in the conference room", Ilsa quickly interrupted her, blushing, and the two friends shared a knowing smile. "Mr. Guerrero unfortunately seems to be held up, the traffic, I guess… "

Ilsa's laugh changed from relaxed to nervous. She had heard Guerrero mentioning to Chance that he and the "pizza boy" needed to talk. Somehow Ilsa had the inkling it wouldn't be about extra pepperoni and anchovies. Shannon was one of her oldest friends, if Guerrero embarrassed her like he and Chance had done back when Connie had visited the office for the first time…

To her great relief, Guerrero's clothes were completely blood-free when he finally showed up.

Nevertheless, and to Ilsa's utter surprise, Shannon looked totally shocked when she laid eyes on him. Granted, his appearance wasn't that of your nine to five everyday employee, the way he carried himself indicated that there was more to him than met the eye, but that didn't justify turning white as a blanket the second she saw him, did it?

"Shannon, dear, are you alright?"

"Oh, yes, yes, everything is fine, I'm just on edge because of this stalker, this is why I came here, you know…" And then she started telling the team about "this stalker" that was following her ever since she had moved into her new mansion in L.A. It was a long and confusing rant, not at all what Ilsa would have expected from her usually very calm and level-headed friend. As chairwoman of a big biotech company she was used to pressure and critical situations, why was she suddenly showing nerves?

Chance was only half-listening to Shannon's narration. Winston would brief him properly afterwards anyway. Of course Ash was on his mind, but even more so his focus was on Guerrero. Shannon's reaction on seeing him hadn't escaped his notice. Thoughtfully he rested his eyes on his friend.

Could it be…?


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and I don't intend any copyright infringement.**

Shannon's story wasn't very complicated.

Shortly after she had moved into her new LA mansion she had started getting more hate mail than usual. At first she hadn't paid much attention to the sudden increase - her company had just released a new, genetically engineered crop, protests from environmental activists had been intense, some always took it beyond mere protest... but when she started getting telephone calls in the middle of the night, calls to her private - secret - number, she had gotten concerned and informed the police.

The police, predictably, hadn't been able to do much. Even when someone sent her dead rats first via mail and then left them on her doorstep - her guarded doorstep - they didn't have more helpful advice than "hire a bodyguard". This was when Shannon remembered her old friend Ilsa talking about working with a very special (and handsome) bodyguard now, who had helped her out of the mess after Marshall's death.

They decided the most logic approach to the issue would be going to LA and set up camp at her mansion since all attacks seemed to center around the house.

A really nice house, by the way.

"I had the prior building torn down", Shannon explained as she let them in. "Pity, actually - once upon a time it must have been a beautiful place. There was a mosaic wind compass in the original hall that must have been a true masterpiece, but by the time I bought the premises, it was already beyond rescue. A fire had destroyed major parts of the east wing, there were signs of vandalism everywhere... so I decided to hire this really innovative Japanese architect..."

And he had definitely been worth his money. The entrance hall alone was so big, it could have easily housed Chance's complete living quarters. Even Winston marvelled at the sheer grandeur of the place. Till a shrill alarm bell rather violently woke him from his reverie, that is.

"Oops, I think I accidentally set off the alert system", Chance said, leaning against the wall right next to the control panel. "Hm, that's not good at all, if we don't switch it off again in the next thirty seconds, an automatic alert will be sent to the police. Unfortunately Shannon and Ilsa are already half up the stairs..."

"Dude!" Guerrero yanked open the control panel, typed in the code and slammed it shut again.

Merciful silence reigned, but not for long.

"So you know the door code?", Chance innocently asked his friend.

"Did some research", Guerrero snarled back.

"Meticulous of you." Chance was openly grinning now.

Winston was confused. As they started up the stairs to follow Shannon and Ilsa, he held Chance back. "What's going on here?"

"We're going to have some fun." Chance's eyes were gleaming with mischief. "Think we should search everything thoroughly first", he called loudly. "Ames, take a look at the kitchen, will you? Shannon, could you show Ilsa the bathroom you use most often? We're going to take a look at the master bedroom."

When they arrived on the first floor, Ilsa was just commenting on a dress she had seen spread out over a recliner, apparently it had come back from the dry cleaner's. "Funny, I used to have practically the same one, but it was ruined during an - erm - evening at the opera..."

"Oh, really? What a coincidence..." Shannon sounded more exaspirated than surprised.

The two women went into the master bathroom. A short time later, they could hear Ilsa again: "I never knew you liked this perfume brand, too. It's really hard to come by. Who's your retailer?"

"It was a gift", Shannon grumbled.

"And that's the same shampoo I use!"

"Ilsa, stop going through my toiletries!"

For some reason, Chance was laughing his ass off.

"Looks like there's a hidden compartment in the nightstand", Winston observed as he looked at the furniture's proportions.

"I'll handle that!" Guerrero pretty much threw himself between Winston and the nightstand. "You'll only break it, butterfingers..." With surprisingly little resistance the hidden compartment opened to his touch. There was something gleaming inside, like metal. Handcuffs?

Winston and Chance had no chance to verify that assumption, Guerrero slammed the compartment shut again so fast and vehement, the bedside lamp almost dropped off the nightstand.

"Nothing interesting, just private stuff", he said.

"Looks like Shannon had a secret or two", Chance replied, obviously greatly enjoying this.

Winston was getting a little frustrated, he still had no clue what was going on. He realized Chance was having fun at somebody's expense, but as far as he knew it wasn't him.

Some consolation...

He wanted to be in the loop! Down in the entrance hall, after Guerrero had typed in the doorcode, Ames had looked as if she had been having a lightbulb moment.

He decided to question her, next chance he got.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"Jeez, Winston, you scared me." Ames sat herself upright and squinted into the darkness.

"There's something going on between Chance and Guerrero and I want to know what it is!"

"You don't know…?" The tone of Ames' voice made it very clear that he, ex-cop and all, should really have figured this out by now.

"Would I be asking if I knew?", he grumbled impatiently. This was a highly ridiculous situation – him in his PJ's, standing at scarcely clad Ames' bedside in the middle of the night. It practically begged for someone walking in on them and drawing the wrong conclusions. He bet Ilsa, with her instinct for showing up at right the wrong moment, was already stirring in her sleep.

"Sorry, but you've got to figure this out on your own", Ames replied after a moment of hesitation.

"Ames!" Winston was having trouble keeping his voice down.

"Really sorry, but no. I enjoy breathing way too much." She sank back into the soft pillows Shannon's guest bed provided, closed her eyes and waited with grinning broadly till she heard the door shut.

She knew something Winston didn't! YAY!

… … …

Ames wasn't the only one with a visitor that night. Shannon, however, wasn't startled by the sudden appearance of a shadow at the foot of her bed. It wasn't the first time he had come into her room like this.

"You never mentioned a stalker", he said.

"It's not that we ever do much talking, is it?" Shannon switched on her bedside lamp.

Was it the effect of the sudden light blinding him or did she really see him flinch in something like disappointment? The faintest hint of a flinch, not really there and already gone again in a split second…

"So your name is Guerrero…", she stated.

He didn't reply.

"And you know Ilsa…. Not only _know _Ilsa, but actually work for her."

Guerrero still didn't reply.

Was he sorry about this? Worried what she might be thinking about him?

This was useless. He had never let her in on his feelings, why should he start now? This had been part of the game, part of its appeal, to be honest, from the very beginning.

_The very beginning…_

A job had brought Guerrero to LA, shortly after their return from Geneva. It went down surprisingly well. The guy he had come to visit didn't need much persuasion to pay up – the useful side of the reputation that preceded him. So he found himself in the rare situation of having a free evening.

After a bit of dithering – an acquaintance who owed him a favor had just opened a brand new brothel – he decided for a night at the opera. They had a decent guest conductor and the soloist had received some raving reviews.

Shannon immediately caught his attention. Although her hair was different back then and the dress she wore wasn't quite the right style, there was an unmistakable similarity to Ilsa Pucci.

He kept an eye on her the whole evening, which was easy since she occupied one of the expensive loges. The fact that she occupied it alone didn't escape his notice either.

At first it was just an intellectual game – what would it take to shatter that cool façade of hers? To lure out the animalistic side of her?

He was sure she was some kind of CEO. The level of iron self-control she emitted practically screamed conference rooms, board meetings, charity dinners. To stay on top in that shark tank kind of a world, holding your true self, your needs and wants captive in a well-locked prison cell somewhere deep down inside, was a must.

A quick online research with his smart phone during intermission verified the CEO assumption. Biotech… impressive.

Imagining all the different ways of how he could set the suppressed side of Shannon Dunne free took much of Guerrero's concentration. He didn't even notice that the soloist missed the last high note of the aria. He was thinking of other high notes…

When she left after the final curtain, he followed her. She was hectically speaking into her cell as she walked through the foyer, but from the way she looked he could tell she was only getting through to an answering machine.

He expected her to hop into an expensive limousine and be gone forever, but instead she chose to get a table at the high-end restaurant right next to the opera house. A more spiritual soul than Guerrero would have maybe taken this as a sign from above.

Guerrero simply figured what the hell and went for it.

"He won't come", he said as he sat down at her table.

Shannon, in a bit of an emotional turmoil after the disappointments of the evening, was too surprised by his sudden appearance to reply right away. All she managed was a puzzled look.

"The douche bag who stood you up. He won't come. His loss. He missed quite a fine performance, and that's only the least of his idiotic decisions this evening. Nice dress." Guerrero smiled at her.

"Are you trying to _flirt_ with me?" Shannon had found her voice again. This was just what she needed. First a cancelled date and then a … whatever… trying to chat her up. "Save yourself the humiliation and don't ask if you can buy me a drink."

"I wasn't going to offer you a drink. But I'm going to pay for a room in the hotel on the other side of the street." He got up.

"You don't really think…?" Shannon didn't know whether to laugh or call the police.

"_You_ don't want to miss a fine performance tonight, do you?" He raised an eyebrow. "Ask for Mr. Miller." Without another word, he turned and walked away.

No one had ever dared to talk to her like that. His self-assurance was nothing he had learned in a leadership seminar with a coaching guru that ended with the participants walking over hot coal.

He was real.

She watched his retreating backside, watched him cross the street through the restaurant's large windows, saw him enter the hotel lobby… For what felt like an eternity she just sat and stared at the empty seat across the table. Then, not quite believing she was actually doing this, she got up, apologized for having occupied a table without ordering and left the restaurant.

To cross the street, enter the hotel on the other side and ask for a Mr. Miller at the reception desk.

They both hadn't planned to let it go beyond that one night. Really not. Even afterwards, when he left her a telephone number to call, he didn't really think he'd see her again. She pushed it in her purse and shook her head at the idea of pulling off a stunt like that ever again.

But two weeks later they fixed a new appointment.

Over time she grew tired of the hotel rooms and let him into her house. He made room for regular meetings in his stuffed schedule.

And started bringing her gifts…

Yes, he started molding her, even after he found out she knew Ilsa from her boarding school days. He figured Shannon would never make the connection between him and Ilsa.

Well, even Guerrero could be wrong sometimes.

"I'm not mad at you", she told him in the darkness of her bedroom. "But I do need to think about this."

Guerrero nodded, got up and left the room as silently as he had walked in.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

It was decided that an impromptu pre-Halloween costume party held at Shannon's mansion would be the most secure way to lure out the stalker.

Shannon and Ilsa were put in charge of organizing the invitations, the catering and the decoration. Ames was scheduled to help them. Winston and Guerrero set up the security measures. Chance offered to get the costumes.

Hang on, _Chance_ offered to get the costumes?

Yeah, Ilsa got suspicious immediately, too. Shopping ranked high on Chance's hate list, right after jogging.

Her suspicions turned out to be well-founded.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me?", she asked, holding the Wicked Witch of the West-costume, complete with pointed black hat and green mask, as far from herself as possible.

"Stay away from falling farmhouses?" Chance was obviously having fun.

"Keep an eye on the ruby slippers?" Ames couldn't resist.

"Don't get doused with water." Hell, even Guerrero was enjoying this.

"The Wicked Witch costume conceals your body and face perfectly while still allowing you to move quickly", Winston explained, glaring at the rest of the team. Ilsa was still their boss, for heaven's sake. "Ames and Shannon are going to wear the same."

It sounded like a watertight plan.

Shannon would welcome the guests with a short speech, delivered in her costume, then hide in the east wing under Winston's watch while Ilsa would pretend to be her and entertain the guests for a while. Since the green mask changed the wearer's voice significantly and the musicians were instructed to play extra loud, hopefully nobody would notice the difference.

Around eleven they'd proceed to phase two of the plan: Ilsa would dance a little too exuberantly with Chance and fall unconscious. He'd carry her upstairs into Shannon's bedroom where Ames would already be waiting to take over for this more dangerous part of the job. Ilsa would hide in the walk-in closet next door, Chance would leave the room again so that "Shannon" appeared unguarded, but actually Guerrero would be waiting in the room, gun at the ready.

"Change of plan", Chance told Guerrero as eleven o'clock approached. "I want you to dance with Ilsa."

Guerrero arched an eyebrow. "Why that?"

"You're wearing the more appropriate clothes."

It did make sense - Chance had chosen a rather ragged Indiana Jones attire for himself, complete with hat and whip, while Guerrero was in a formal black dress suit.

Bond, James Bond. Shaken, not stirred.

Shannon Dunne, CEO, would more likely dance with someone like that.

Nodding in agreement, Guerrero made his way downstairs to the entrance hall where Ilsa was already waiting at the meeting spot right next to the second pillar on the left. She didn't ask what was going on when Guerrero took her hand and led her to the dance floor. By now she was used to Chance winging things.

Nevertheless she was surprised. She had never pictured Guerrero as a dancer.

The musicians started playing - a Merengue.

Guerrero pulled her in a closed position, holding her waist with his right hand while his left kept her right hand at her eye level.

He was a dancer indeed!

Aided by the music, their hips quickly found a common rhythm. Only a few notes into the song they already started walking sideways. When that worked well, they grew braver and began circling each other in small steps.

Not once did one of them lose balance. Ilsa felt herself getting lost in the music and the pace. Guerrero's touch to her waist was light but firm. He was guiding her through the crowd, calm and focused as she knew him, but with some strange sort of extra strength she had never noticed before.

Soon they were alternating between closed and open positions, doing separate turns without letting go of each other's hands. It felt as if this dance was made for them.

From the gallery above the entrance hall, Chance watched the two complement each other perfectly in the complicated choreography. He was probably the only person in the world who could notice it, but Guerrero's face was actually displaying hints of happiness.

Something tugged at his heart, first in one direction, then in the other.

Sighing deeply, he made a decision.

Suddenly, towards the end of the song, Guerrero pulled Ilsa close against his chest, so close that she could smell his aftershave and maybe a whiff of his shampoo. "Fall", he breathed against her neck.

Without any hesitation, Ilsa let her knees give way. He had her safe in his arms, no need to worry about hitting the ground.

Actually she _did_ feel dizzy.

As he slowly lowered her to the floor, Ilsa wondered idly how it would feel when he carried her up the stairs. She didn't doubt the slightest he'd do it all by himself. There were surprisingly strong muscles underneath his clothes – his sparring sessions with Chance had provided her with a good view on them. With a slight start she realized she was looking forward to the moment he'd lift her up.

Unfortunately it never came to that.

"Ilsa, get up again!" Guerrero yanked her to her feet. "I can smell smoke near the floor. There must be fire somewhere."

At this very moment, the mansion's alarm bells began to shrill. Someone screamed. "Fire! Fire in the basement!"

All hell broke loose.

The guests started trampling towards the doors. Ilsa and Guerrero were carried outside with the current. Guerrero kept Ilsa in a tight embrace, shielding her with his body as good as he could. She was in extreme danger now – the stalker had to think she was Shannon.

"Ilsa!" Outside, in the cool night air, Ames, still in witch disguise, too, came running towards them, followed by Chance in close pursuit. Guerrero immediately knew what he was doing: With two identical witches they'd definitely confuse the stalker.

The best way to hide a diamond is in a tiara…

Winston and Shannon came running from the east wing, Shannon in witch attire just like the other two women. Chance nodded towards Winston in approval. Quick thinking. This should keep the stalker from striking till things had settled down again.

With wailing sirens the firemen arrived. The crowd of fleeing, running people around them pushed and pulled them forward, further away from the mansion. Soon it was impossible to tell which witch was witch.

All of a sudden a figure in a strange, medieval looking costume stepped in their way. In one hand he was carrying a flute. In the other a gun. "Nobody may dance on a graveyard!", he yelled.

Hiding a diamond in a tiara is fine, but what if someone tries to take the whole tiara?

"Ilsa!", Guerrero bellowed, jumped forward and tackled the witch farthest away from him to the ground. Winston threw himself in front of the other two women while Chance grabbed the man's gun hand.

Whoever this guy was, he was not an experienced fighter. Chance was way too fast for him.

He seized the man's hand with an iron grip and forced it downwards, straight towards his feet. The stalker's eyes widened as he realized what Chance was up to and he started struggling, but Chance, angry because Ilsa had gotten so close to getting harmed, squeezed his fingers... squeezed them till the man had no choice but to pull the trigger.

He shot himself right into his own foot.

Talk about neutralizing the threat.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Niagaraweasel did all the research for me! Thank you, thank you so much! Also big thank you to PocketSevens who enlightened me about what might have happened, had Guerrero taken care of the stalker. **_

"His name is Robert Buwick", Guerrero told Shannon as the stalker was getting loaded into an ambulance. "Ring a bell?"

Shannon shook her head. She looked pale and kind of shell-shocked.

Guerrero frowned. "You need a doctor?", he asked.

Ilsa rolled her eyes, pulled Shannon into her arms and embraced her tightly. Shaking violently, she started to cry.

Seeing a cop approach the two women, Guerrero slipped away into the darkness of the oddly misty night, leaving the explanation part to Winston.

The mansion's garden was more of a park, with all its trees and bushes it provided lots of places to hide. Finding Chance wasn't too difficult. He had chosen a position from which he could watch the EMTs taking care of Buwick.

Buwick's foot must have been aching like hell, but he wasn't showing any signs of pain. All he did was talking rapidly in a long stream of incoherent sentences.

_Swan feathers, swan wings! _

_Who rides so late through the night and wind?_

_Today I brew, tomorrow I bake!_

_And then the Prince child I'll take!_

_Prick yourself with a spindle and fall down dead!_

_Nobody may dance on a graveyard!_

_Be quiet, stay quiet, my child; In the dry leaves the wind is rustling._

_Nobody may dance on a graveyard!_

_Swan feathers, swan wings!_

His voice carried over the noise the cops and firemen were making, turned chant-like and seemed to echo through the grayish mist rising from the ground. Somewhere a clock struck midnight.

… … …

A couple of feet away from Guerrero and Chance Winston was dealing with the cops, giving them a pretty believable account of the events without mentioning Chance's or Guerrero's involvement.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized that Leonard must have done the same thing a thousand times to protect his partner.

"This is different, Winston. You're fighting the good cause", a soft voice in his head argued.

"Are you really sure about that?", another voice, one that sounded a lot like Leonard's, replied rather belligerently. "You realize, had Guerrero instead of Chance gotten one-on-one with the stalker they'd be drawing a white chalk line around him by now. And you'd _still _be standing there, lying your ass off in protection of your FRIENDS."

To Winston's great annoyance, the other, softer voice didn't seem to have anything to say to that.

… … …

"It's as if he doesn't even notice that he's hurt", Chance mused, not taking his eyes off the rather young man. "Possessed people in movies behave like that…"

"Not Halloween yet, bro." Guerrero switched off his smartphone. "Robert Buwick is the son of Thelma Buwick, long time housemaid in the old mansion. He grew up in that place. Probably didn't take kindly to it when Shannon had his childhood home torn down…"

Chance picked up the strange note in Guerrero's voice but didn't know what to make out of it. Of course not. Nobody, not a single soul in the world knew, that, over a decade back, Guerrero had bought his childhood home. He had watched while it was being torn down. The lot was vacant now and as far as Guerrero had a say in it, nobody would ever build anything on it ever again.

"The Pied Piper of Hamelin", Chance murmured.

"Bro, one nutjob's gibbering is definitely enough for a day."

"His costume." Chance was talking more to himself than to Guerrero. "It a Pied Piper costume. And he's quoting – the Erlking, Rumpelstiltskin, Sleeping Beauty, maybe the Six Swans… the only thing I can't place is the graveyard part."

"Who cares?", Guerrero shrugged. "Let's go home, I'm sick and tired of this monkey suit."

… … …

Shannon, however, didn't like the idea of them going home at all.

"Job's done. You're safe now", Chance said. "There's no need to worry anymore."

"But I want to know why he did all that!", she insisted. "I've never met that man and the mansion was empty and falling into pieces for years. Why me? Why not those who ruined it?"

They were sitting in the upper living-room of the building which had remained untouched by the fire. Luckily the house was a bit scorched but not significantly damaged. The quench water had ruined some carpets and paintings, but the walls were intact.

"Nutjobs are nutjobs", Guerrero explained rather impatiently. "No explanation possible. Take serial killers for example. Nature's sick puppets. Their brain is completely messed up, they don't think for themselves, it's all instinct. Rabid dogs, beyond rescue. Putting them out of their misery is mercy and Brother Grimm who stalked you would be better off pushing daisies, too."

"He wasn't a nutjob till six months ago", Ames chimed in, studying her smartphone. Guerrero had sent her the information he had gathered about Buwick to insert in the report they had to write for Ilsa.

"Looks like he lived a normal life, had a job, had a fiancée…"

"Did anything happen six months ago?" Winston agreed with Ames, this was strange.

Shannon shook her head. "Nothing special."

"You were in the newspaper", Guerrero said. "Complete with photo. The article was about the covering of the mosaic wind compass." The look on his face made it very clear that questions regarding why he knew about that particular article would result in the painful loss of a limb.

"Covering?" Ames frowned.

"We didn't remove the wind compass, we just covered it up with a layer of concrete. It's still in the center of the entrance hall. We built the new mansion around it", Shannon explained.

Winston, Chance and Guerrero all understood at once – the attacks had all centered around the house… the sentences from the fairy tales Buwick had been rambling had mostly been about wind…

Guerrero looked at Winston. "I know a guy who could get us a jackhammer right now…"

All of Winston's newly refreshed reservations about Guerrero were momentarily shoved away – using a jackhammer? That was almost just as great as firing a grenade launcher!

An hour later Guerrero's guy had made the delivery.

"You can't be serious!", Shannon protested one last time.

"_You_ insisted on knowing the whole truth, remember?", Guerrero smirked and plugged the jackhammer in.

Not really succeeding in hiding his excitement, Winston placed the machine where the wind compass had been and started hammering Shannon's expensive Italian tiles away.

Ten minutes later they had a much better idea of what had turned Buwick into a basket case.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Again this was devised with the help of niagaraweasel and PocketSevens, although they probably didn't even realize it. Thank you! **_

They found a small skeleton, wrapped in the remains of what must once have been a thick blanket, underneath the wind compass.

As it turned out, Buwick's mother had given birth to a stillborn child when he was very young, too young to fully process what was happening. All he perceived was lots of blood, tears, screams and a small bundle buried in the entrance hall in the dead of night. Nobody bothered to explain anything to him, probably because nobody realized he had witnessed the ordeal. Apparently his mind pushed the memory away for decades, till the newspaper article about Shannon brought it all back, with the force of an avalanche.

Why did the mother hide the dead body away instead of going through normal proceedings?

She had kept her pregnancy a secret, the baby had been the result of an affair with her employer. A man who had had no interest whatsoever in raising an illegitimate offspring. Ironic as it is, but back when the mother secretly buried the child, she was convinced she was acting in the best interest of everyone.

The nature of secrets… no matter how well you hide them, one day they surface.

Sometimes with the help of a jackhammer.

Buwick's doctors were confident that now that they knew what had triggered his breakdown, they'd get him on his feet again. He was still facing charges for arson, among other things, but with his documented mental problems chances were he'd get off easy. Shannon was at peace with this.

With something else, however, she was not at peace.

"I thought I could live with it…", she told Guerrero after coming back from the baby's funeral. He was sitting in his usual chair in the conference room, while she was pacing up and down. His face was unreadable. Not the slightest hint of how he felt about the whole situation. Well, she hadn't expected anything else.

"I knew from the very start that this …arrangement… between us was nothing more than a friends with benefits thing…" Shannon hesitated, rolled her eyes. "Okay, make that "acquaintances with benefits"… heavy on the benefits part… anyway, I continued seeing you because you were letting me live out my fantasies, fantasies I didn't even realize I had before I met you and I figured if your fantasy was, well … screwing … Ilsa, then be it…"

Shannon fell silent, hoping for some sort of reaction from him, but all he did was look at her with raised eyebrows. So it was really up to her to do all the talking. Okay, then be that, too.

"But yesterday, you threw yourself in front of Ilsa to save her life. You put your body on the line for her. And not only that – we all wore identical clothes, identical masks. Nobody could tell who was who, but you knew. You knew exactly which witch was Ilsa. Your feelings for Ilsa aren't simply about tasting a forbidden fruit – this goes deeper, and I'm not going to stand in the way."

For a brief moment, Shannon waited, gave him another chance to reply. Guerrero remained silent. Nodding, she turned and walked out of the room.

On her way to the elevator, she ran into Ilsa. "You're already leaving? I had hoped we could have dinner together. I was thinking about inviting the whole team!"

Shannon looked at her for a moment, then stood up on tiptoes and kissed her forehead.

Ilsa was stunned. "What…?"

"Before Dorothy travels to the Emerald City to meet the Wizard of Oz, the Good Witch of the North kisses her in an act of protection", Shannon mumbled.

This didn't exactly clear the matter up.

Her lipstick had left a mark on Ilsa's skin.

"Shannon, dear, is everything alright with you?"

"Everything is fine, Ilsa. I'm going to travel to Asia for a while. The branch office in Hong Kong needs to be reminded who signs the paychecks in the end… all I wanted to tell you is… sometimes we miss the forest for the trees… you might want to reconsider your options one day…"

Totally puzzled, Ilsa watched Shannon disappear into the elevator which had just come up with visitors for Chance: Philippa was dropping Ash off. Ah yes, the school problem.

"Thursday evening your son came home with a bloody nose and he has stanchly refused to give a lucid explanation for that", Philippa told Chance. "Since you seem to know a thing or two about interrogation I figured I should give you a shot."

"Mom, you're mean", Ash chimed in. He was consequently avoiding eye contact with his father or anyone else in the office, but Winston recognized the way his jaw line was set. When Chance was looking like that, it was impossible to get an answer out of him. Well, luckily this was not his problem.

"It's called "parenting", darling. I'm your mother, being mean is part of my job description." Gently but firmly Philippa steered Ash in the direction of his father. "Let's see how well you fare without knives" she muttered under her breath in the direction of Guerrero before leaving.

Chance sat his son down in the conference room, just like Shannon had done with Guerrero only a couple of moments ago. "Ashley, whatever it is, you can tell me."

"Ashley"… that sounded wrong somehow. Guerrero had advised Chance to use the full version of Ash's name in conversations like these, it would make clearer that this was serious, but Guerrero's boy wasn't carrying a name that sounded like a girl's. Chance decided to stick with "Ash".

"If you got into a fight at school it's okay. You tell me what happened and we'll work it out." Chance could kick himself for telling Ames to drop her surveillance on him. They had needed her for a case and he had thought Ash was now so well settled in at his new school that keeping an eye on him constantly wasn't necessary anymore. Well obviously that assumption had been wrong.

"Don't worry about me getting mad at you. I can't promise I won't, but nothing in the world could be so bad that I wouldn't eventually forgive you", he tried again.

This got Ash's attention. "Really? You forgive people, even if you've had a really bad fallout with them?"

"Of course", Chance confirmed, relieved that he finally seemed to be getting through to his boy. "We sit down, talk it over and mend matters. That's how people live together."

Ash frowned, apparently deep in thought. Chance silently congratulated himself on his parenting skills. He was succeeding where Philippa had given up. YES!

Suddenly he caught movement in the corner of his eye. Guerrero rushed into the room. "The elevator is moving on its own", he told Chance.

This could only mean one thing: Somebody had overridden the security system.

Guerrero grabbed Ash and dragged him to the floor, Chance pulled the nearest gun and hastened to the elevator. Its signal announced that it was already on the office level.

The doors slid open. Chance cocked his gun at the unannounced visitor…

… and found himself looking at the Old Man.

"Looks like every time I show up here, I've got to save somebody's ass", he gnarled.

At this very moment, Ash wrested himself free from Guerrero's grip and dashed out of the conference room, straight towards the elevator.

"Grandpa!", he called.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Thank you, jackattack, for taking the time to leave a review!**_

The smirk on Joubert's face was so smug, Chance felt the urge to shoot it off his face. Not an option, of course, with Ash looking on.

Guerrero placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and steered him away. "You're coming with me", he curtly instructed him, the tone of his voice making it very clear that this was not up for debate.

Chance tucked his gun behind the waistband of his jeans. The message was obvious: One wrong move...

Joubert however, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the situation. Grinning broadly, he let Chance guide him into the conference room. "Sorry about the bloody nose", he grunted as he sat down. "I was showing him a reverse hold and we had a little accident."

"When?", Chance hissed.

"As soon as your little thief dropped surveillance. Talented girl, by the way. And pretty, too. I heard she moved in here?"

Chance's hand went to his gun and the Old Man raised his hand in a placating gesture. "I approached him after school, introduced myself... we've been meeting quite regularly since. I told him you and I had a fallout a couple of years back, after grandma died. The grief was too much for both of us and we made the mistake of blaming each other instead of pulling together... Finally Baptiste watching these soap operas is actually good for something..."

"You are NOT his grandfather."

The smile on Joubert's face was still unwavering. "I'm as much his grandfather as _Fips_ is his mother. I've always wondered about Juliet's messy wound... Now it all makes sense..."

"If you really think..." Chance's voice was barely audible.

"Ah, I see, you're aiming for the truth, Junior... you want your boy to know the truth... noble... so with which truth shall we start here? The truth that the woman Ash thinks is his mother actually killed his real mother? Or the truth that his father is an ex-assassin and multiple murderer?"

"You wouldn't..."

The Old Man chuckled. "You sure about that? Considering that you pictured me as evil incarnate for years, do you really think I'd refrain from breaking a young boy's heart? - _Your_ boy's heart?"

Before Chance could reply, they both caught movement outside the conference room. Apparently Ash had managed to escape Guerrero again. For a tiny moment Chance had to stifle a smile. Ash didn't realize how much he was playing with fire here. So far Guerrero was cutting him some slack because he was Chance's son, but his generosity had limits... Chance wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Cautiously Ash walked up to the threshold and leaned against the doorframe. "You said forgiveness is the key to people living together", he mumbled quietly. "Are you going to forgive grandpa?"

"Ash..." Chance closed his eyes. This evening was turning out a lot more complicated than he had originally anticipated.

"You said I could have everything I want for my birthday", he replied, still quietly, but now looking Chance straight into the eye.

Somewhere in the back of Chance's mind Guerrero's voice spoke up. "No matter how harmless it sounds, you promise it to a child and it comes back biting you in the ass."

Did he always have to be right?

"Leave us alone for a moment, will you?"

Ash gave Chance a vaguely hopeful, lopsided smile that oddly tugged at his heart, and dashed off.

"He's a manipulator, just like you." The Old Man was smiling, too. Unlike Ash's, his smile made Chance's stomach flip over.

"You really don't see it, do you?" Joubert shook his head. "It's all there. All the tools. And he's beginning to figure out how to use them."

"With your help." Chance's voice had turned icy cold.

"I've been teaching him self-defense. He has no idea whatsoever how to defend himself, but you're letting him go to a public school. After being under the sole influence of that woman all his life. With a name like _Ashley_... What the hell have you been thinking?"

"I told Ames to..."

The Old Man snorted. "Are you planning to watch him for the rest if his life? He's turning thirteen in less than a month. He'll be a man soon. What kind of a man do you want him to be?"

"I'm not going to let you turn him into a monster."

"Just like I turned you into a monster?" Trust Joubert to stab right into Chance's weakest spot.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I want a grandson, Junior. And he's perfect. Just like you were."

_Perfect._

The word sent shivers down Chance's spine.

"I know that you've come to some sort of understanding with Guerrero regarding his extracurricular activities. I don't see why we shouldn't reach the same agreement."

The veiled threat behind that seemingly harmless statement was unmistakable. The alternative was Joubert telling Ash the truth about his family ties. Chance knew from painful experience that the past always comes catching up with you. One day Ash would find out. The mere idea caused him nightmares in cold bleak morning hours. But at the moment his son was only twelve.

Too young, way too young. Chance didn't have much of a choice, did he?

"You're not going to meet him alone anymore."

The Old Man nodded, wisely hiding his triumphant smile.

"You're not, under any circumstances, going to teach him how to use a gun. No knives either. No explosives."

"Are you done?"

"And no poison!"

The Old Man started laughing. A low rumbling sound. "Drums in the deep", Chance thought. The realization just how fitting the quote was sent shivers down his spine.

The elevator signaled. Philippa was returning. Chance left the conference room to meet her while Joubert went to seek out Ash.

"Mystery solved?", she asked, obviously expecting a negative answer. Chance looked so defeated, no way he had gotten through to Ash. In a way this lifted her spirits.

"I've got good and bad news", Chance began. "Good news is, he didn't get into a fight..."

"Mom, have you ever met dad's father?" Ash, Joubert in tow, exited he kitchen area.

The Old Man extended his hand. Philippa shook it, but the look she threw Chance spoke volumes. "Am I just meeting the bad news?", it said.

Chance took a deep breath.


	22. Palmyra

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ Palmyra ~**_

"Are you cooking something?" Ames eyed the crock pot on the stove with suspicious curiosity. She had – well, let's face it – _moved_ _in_ months ago, but she hadn't seen Chance cook once in all that time.

Fried bacon and Froot Loops don't count. Neither does popcorn.

"Aren't we ordering in tonight?" Suppressing a pained groan, she sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, balancing awkwardly on her left buttock. "I thought we'd try out the new Thai restaurant down the street."

"Take-out? Don't tell me you'd prefer take-out to this…" Chance lifted the pot's lid and used a slotted spoon to show her… show her… what the hell was that?

It looked like a fist-sized dark gray stone.

Ames stared at Chance with a rather terrified expression. Chance started laughing.

"Relax! It's no food! I won't make you eat it! We're going to order in later, Thai if you want to."

"Then what is _that_?" Ames was still suspicious. Guerrero's latest "pay attention or you'll regret it"-lesson had left quite a mark.

"It's a basalt stone." Chuckling, he cautiously lowered the thing back into the pot.

Ames rolled her eyes. "And _why _are you cooking a basalt stone?"

"For you, of course! And actually it's more than one." He reached into the basket next to the kitchen unit and tossed her a huge towel. "Now lose your clothes."

Ames was so stunned, the folded towel hit her straight in the face. "Excuse me?"

"You've been having back problems all day long. From the way you're sitting I guess it's a pulled nerve somewhere in your lumbar region. I'm going to give you a massage." He produced a blanket from the basket, shooed her away from the chair she had been sitting on and spread the blanket on the kitchen table.

Maybe Chance had heard the elevator's signal, but Ames had been way too confused for the past few minutes to pay any attention to her environment, so Guerrero entering the room caught her totally off guard. She practically jumped as he suddenly spoke up from the direction of the threshold.

"You guys should put up a DND sign somewhere…" He was looking pointedly at the blanket on the kitchen table.

Chance walked over to the stove, lifted the pot's lid again and showed him one of the basalt stones.

"Dude, you're lucky", Guerrero told Ames. "He's really good with these things. Why aren't you naked yet?"

Chance looked at him ostentatiously. He got the message and left, the tackle box for which he had apparently come back for, clattering with the rhythm of his steps. A moment later they heard the elevator ding.

"Come on, Ames, you can keep your panties on, but the rest has got to go." Chance patted the blanket on the table in a business-like manner. "A pulled nerve is nothing to be taken lightly. I need you fit, Ames. Nobody knows when the next job comes in."

As she slowly shed her clothes, it occurred to Ames that Chance, unlike Guerrero, wasn't even considering that this situation had more than strictly medicinal connotations. Nothing in his behavior, not the slightest hint, indicated that he was aiming at a little bonus for himself. All he wanted was making _her_ feel better. Now this was new to Ames.

Suddenly taking off her clothes was easy.

Chance kept himself busy with the stones till she was lying face down on the table. She didn't need to say anything, he must have heard her climbing up and getting ready. Wordlessly he covered her with an additional blanket, leaving only her legs exposed.

"If any of them is too hot, tell me", he said, carefully placing one stone on her upper right leg, one on the middle of her hamstrings, one the back of her knee and another, smaller one on the center of her calf. They radiated soft, soothing warmth. Ames let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

Chance's hands were warm and his grip was firm. With well-practiced moves he began working on her left leg in long, gentle strokes with his palms and thumbs. Ames found herself sighing as the muscles' tension slowly gave way. After a while – she couldn't say how long exactly, she was losing track of time – he used one of the largest stones to glide up the muscles of her leg towards her heart. Afterwards he moved the stones from her right leg to her left leg and repeated the whole procedure. A small pile of stones gradually warmed the muscles on her lower back. The pain that had been bothering her all day long slowly subsided.

"Everything okay, Ames?"

"Mhm-mhm", she replied vaguely, on the verge of getting lost completely in the warm cocoon of the blanket, with the soft touch of his hands making her skin glow. She couldn't remember a time when she had been so exposed and yet felt so safe in the presence of another person, especially not a male person.

Slowly her eyes drifted shut. No need to be alert.

At some point she must have fallen asleep for when she opened her eyes again found herself on the couch in the lounge, completely tucked in one of the blankets. She could hear Chance talking in the kitchen. It sounded like a telephone conversation. Someone must have called, which explained why she had woken up.

Chance sounded reluctant, torn somehow.

"You have a thing for remote places, haven't you?"

But he also sounded playful. Whoever it was on the other end of the line, it was no stranger and, judging from the tone of his voice, a woman.

Ames frowned.

"What comes next, the moon?"

She could almost see him smile, complete with dimple. But there was nevertheless a tinge of hesitancy in his words, too.

Ames understood why he was reluctant; it sounded like a job somewhere in the middle of nowhere, probably in another country – leaving San Francisco now, with Joubert circling Ash like a vulture, was perhaps not the best idea….

"We can be there by tomorrow", she just then heard him say. "Don't worry, Jessica. We'll sort it out."

A moment later Chance was yelling from the kitchen: "Ames! Get up! A new job has come in!"

Reluctantly, Ames wrapped the blanket around her and staggered towards the room she was occupying ever since the Alejandro ordeal.

Jessica. Who the hell was Jessica?


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Trust Jessica Shaw, former country practitioner on a remote Alaskan Island, to find an even more deserted place to help ye that labour and are heavy laden.

Palmyra, Syria.

Two words that say it all, don't they? Especially in the given political situation. Chance had struggled long and hard with himself and had been on the edge of calling the whole thing off at least twice, but in the end he just couldn't leave Jessica alone with her problem in a country that was on the edge of open civil war.

Ilsa had to bend over backwards to get permission for the jet to land…

…which is how they found out that she wasn't chairwoman of the Marshall Pucci Foundation's board anymore. Suddenly a lot of doors opened a lot less smoothly than they used to and predictably the board was, mildly put, reluctant to step in on her behalf. In the end it was Connie who helped them out.

Even Guerrero was surprised by the news regarding Ilsa. How could such a significant change escape his notice? She was really getting better at hiding things from him. He didn't have much time to lose thought over the matter, though. He had hardly set foot on Syrian soil when his cell phone signaled – one of his sources in New York.

"Someone's asking questions about you."

Guerrero stifled a sigh. "A woman, heavy Irish accent, smells of cop?"

"Complete with flaming red hair. A walking talking cliché."

"Did you get her name?" The guy in his hometown had been a complete failure in that regard. Maybe his NY guy…

"Still working on it…"

Damnit.

During his thirty plus years in the business he'd worked jobs in both the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland every now and then, some with Junior, some alone. He knew the IRA and its various branch organizations were pretty dominant down there. Not much room to wriggle. The risk of ending up floating in the Irish Sea, combined with Junior's turn to the good cause a couple of years back, had led him to avoid that island for about a decade now. What in the world could that cop want?

Chance noticed the frown on Guerrero's face as he spoke, something that usually announced trouble of the painful kind for someone. Just like Guerrero, however, he didn't have much time to ponder the issue, for his cell phone rang, too.

Philippa.

Taking a deep breath, he answered the call.

"We've had a visitor", she said.

The tone of her voice didn't leave much room for interpretation regarding who had come over. The thought of leaving Ash alone in San Francisco with the Old Man just waiting for an opportunity to be alone with him had kept Chance wide awake all the way to Syria. He had left more than one threat on Joubert's answering machine, but they both knew when it came down to it whatever he said was nothing but hot air. The Old Man had the whip hand in this matter, and he was sure going to use it.

"What happened?" Standing on the runway in the stifling Syrian midday heat Chance prepared himself for bad news.

"He invited Ash to a day trip on a fishing boat. This other guy was with him, too. _Uncle_ Baptiste, if I'm not mistaken."

Fishing! Chance could easily imagine Joubert showing Ash how to gut a fish, teaching him that sympathy with the creature was inappropriate, hardening him against the sight of the blood and the smell. From there it was only a few steps further to… He clenched his fists in a sudden onslaught of wrath.

"Ash reminded him that you have forbidden any unchaperoned meetings and that he surely didn't want to risk his newly mended relationship with you by disregarding that rule."

It took Chance a moment to process what Philippa had just said.

"Instead of going fishing, Ash suggested they could stay at our house, I could cook something and we could spend the day playing board games on the deck. Which is exactly what we did. How come my son knows how to play Pai Gow, by the way?"

Chance rolled his head backwards and started laughing at the image of Joubert getting defeated by a boy's logic – a relieved, liberated laugh, the first one since they had gone on this job.

At the end of the runway a jeep pulled up and Jessica got out.

A couple of moments ago he wouldn't have noticed but now things were different. He couldn't help but smile as she walked towards him: She looked even more beautiful than he remembered.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

A closer look, however, revealed that Jessica also seemed to be more distressed than he remembered she had been the first time they had met – which is saying something, considering she had been on the run from the brutal henchman of a mining company back then.

"Things have gotten worse", she told Chance as they climbed into the car. Judging from the way she revved up the engine, conditions had to be dire.

They passed through modern Palmyra at break-neck speed. After the second nearly run-over camel within a minute, Chance intervened and brought the vehicle to a screeching halt with the help of the e-brake. Ilsa, squeezed into the back of the car with Ames, while Winston and Guerrero were riding in the truck bed, let out an audible sigh. The others looked relieved, too.

"I'll drive", Chance said, grabbed Jessica by the waist, lifted her up, pulled her over to his side, rested her on his lap for the briefest of moments and then scooted over to occupy the driver's seat himself. Jessica was caught so off guard, she managed nothing but a surprised gasp. "Directions?", he asked, smiling innocently.

"Would have never thought I'd feel safer with Chance at the wheel…" Winston mumbled.

"Hope she has a good excuse for that kind of reckless driving", Guerrero replied. "Place is crawling with military. Imagine she had run-over a soldier… Damn minefield this is." He nodded at a group of heavily armed soldiers stopping passengers and checking their IDs.

Winston would have rather bitten his tongue off than admitting it, but he could only agree. Syria was a country on the edge of civil war. This job felt like suicide mission. If all they had to do was get Jessica out… but no, of course there was an additional hitch to the whole issue: She hadn't given them any specifics yet, but according to her lives were at stake, many lives.

Jessica's directions brought them outside town, to the ruins of ancient Palmyra, once known as the Bride of the Desert, now an assembly of ruins that spoke of what once must have been immense pride and prosperity. For hundreds of years Palmyra had been a vital caravan city for travelers crossing the Syrian desert, till it was gradually abandoned for reasons still unknown after the 8th century. In its heyday the buildings of Palmyra outshone those of ancient Rome and its citizens built a huge temple of Ba'al.

"Probably the most important religious building of the first century AD in the Middle East", Ames said as they got out of the car in front of the temple's entrance portico. Dilapidated or not, its giant columns looked impressive. "What?", she said as everyone stared at her. "When I heard we're heading to Syria I did some research!"

Guerrero pushed his glassed down his nose and arched his eyebrows.

"I read the Wikipedia article, okay. But it's still research!"

Jessica led them past a small row of camouflage tents amidst the ruins. "My hospital", she said. "Originally intended as a temporary primary care ward for the members of the international excavation team that was doing research here. I used to drop by every two or three days, taking care of the usual maladies that come with the territory – scorpion bites, small accidents, cases of diarrhea…"

"And now?" Chance basically already knew the answer, and so did the rest of the team except Ilsa who wasn't quite sure yet what to make of the strange quicklime stench that seemed to get more intense the further they approached a cordoned off, tarpaulin covered area a bit away from the tents.

"By now it's become an isolation ward", Jessica replied and lifted one of the tarps. Ilsa gasped. Underneath were bodies, at least half a dozen. They were covered in quicklime, but no amount of lime in the world could have hidden the fact that all these men must have died a horribly painful death.

"You said nothing about deaths when you called", Chance said.

"They all died within the last 24 hours." Jessica let the tarp fall to the ground again and started walking away. "I knew they were sick – fever, shivering attacks, extreme headaches, aphasia, loss of vision… told you about it. But yesterday evening all hell broke loose… one after another they started screaming, convulsing with pain… the spasm were so bad, some of them suffered broken bones… in the end I tried the heaviest sedatives I had, to make it at least easier for them, but it was to no avail. Nothing worked." She stopped on a small platform with columns on its sides.

"Don't get me wrong, but did I get that right, you brought us right into an area where a deadly virus has broken out?" Winston's question was more directed at Chance than at Jessica. This was exactly why Winston HATED it when Chance took on jobs without Winston taking a look at them first. Their definition of the term "acceptable risk" varied significantly.

"It's not a virus", Chance replied. "At least that's what I was told yesterday. Any new discoveries since, doc?" He sounded tense, too. Risking his own life and well-being was one thing – but exposing his team to something that dangerous… _And_ - a completely new thought - if he died, what would happen to Ash? The Old Man...

"Look at this." Jessica showed them a large stone plate embedded into what once was the platform's floor.

"Nice chick", Guerrero said.

The plate showed the outline of a woman's face. Judging from the jewelry she was displayed with, a rich woman. Maybe it was because time and climate had eradicated the finer elements of the portrait, but she didn't look exactly friendly. There was something arrogant about the way her mouth curved and her eyes seemed lifeless, almost hard.

"Meet Zenobia", Jessica said. "Murderer of the six men under the tarp and maybe half of Syria soon, if you don't manage to sort this out."


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.  
><strong>  
>"Hope you're ready for a lesson in history", Jessica said and started walking off the platform, towards her makeshift clinic. "In 212, Septimius Odaenathus, a Prince of Palmyra, was appointed by Roman emperor Valerian as the governor of the province of Syria. He took residence in his family's palace - the huge stone steps and the lonely wall with the lion that we passed on our way in here once belonged to the palace's west wing." She pointed in the direction of a couple of ruins, vaguely discernible in the fading light of the evening.<p>

"Odaenathus moved in with his son, Vabalathus, and his wife Zenobia, a woman widely known for her mesmerizing beauty. Syria's version of Cleopatra, if you will." Jessica paused for a moment, as if she had only just noticed the similarities between the two women. Ames wondered if the doctor realized that the setting sun was bathing her in golden light and making her skin glow. Judging from the degree of attention he was paying her, Chance had noticed for sure. It wasn't like him to listen that carefully to background information, he usually relied on Winston for a brief summary. Ames frowned and pressed her lips together.

"The comparison is actually quite fitting...", Jessica continued. "As it turned out, Zenobia was not only as beautiful as Cleopatra, she was also just as ambitious. Not long after Odoaenathus started ruling the province, he was assassinated. Allegedly by his nephew Maconius, but recent studies indicate that Zenobia herself was the perpetrator. Apparently she was quite a talented poisoner..."

"Never underestimate a chick with a purpose", Guerrero muttered, his eyes resting on Ilsa just as intensely as Chance's were on Jessica.

"Zenobia took over her husband's position, ruling Palmyra on behalf of her son, but it didn't end there: She rebelled against Roman authority and managed to establish an empire of her own. When she occupied Antioch and large sections of Asia Minor, the Romans had enough. In 272, Aurelian besieged and sacked Palmyra. Zenobia was brought to Rome and paraded in golden chains. However, she didn't end up as dinner for the circus lions - she was allowed to retire to a mansion in Tibur where she died in peace a couple of years later."

"It's not that this isn't terribly interesting", Ames chimed in, "but what exactly does that have to do with the six dead guys underneath the tarp and, more importantly, with us?"

If Jessica noticed the attitude Ames' comment was tinged with, she didn't show it. Instead she stopped once more, of course illuminated by golden light again, and turned around so that she was facing the desert. "Legend has it that shortly after the fall of Antioch, when Zenobia realized that her days as empress were coming to an end, she forced the priests of the Ba'al temple to hand the temples' treasure of gold coins over. We're talking about several baskets of coins here, worth millions in nowadays' US dollars..."

As if on cue, a cool breeze, the first harbinger of the desert nights' icy cold, brushed over their faces like a breath from a ghastly past long gone.

"According to the ancient stories, Zenobia loaded all the gold on the back of camels and sent the caravan to her secret hideaway. She wanted to use the money to hire mercenaries. I would have been enough for a pretty impressive private army and it might have saved her empire... if only the caravan had reached its destination..."

"The legend of the lost caravan...", Chance said, more to himself than to the others.

"You've heard about it?" Jessica was genuinely surprised.

"You've forgotten again that I'm not just hired muscle?", Chance asked her with an expression of mock hurt. "Do I have to teach you all over again?"

Winston harrumphed. Loudly.

"According to the legend Ba'al sent a sandstorm to take revenge for the robbing of his temple. The storm killed Zenobia's henchmen and carried the camels with the gold back where it belonged." Chance was smiling triumphantly.

Jessica nodded, smiling, too. "The professor in charge of the current excavation believed there was more than a grain of truth to that legend. He had the theory that the Ba'al priests and a group of loyal believers ambushed the caravan, killed Zenobia's men and brought the stolen treasure back..."

"I'm sorry, but I still don't see..." All that nonverbal communication between Chance and the doc was mightily getting on Ames' nerves.

"The priests hadn't reckoned with Zenobia's skills as a poisoner", Jessica ended her account. "Which brings me to the current problem..."

"The gold was poisoned", Guerrero said. When everyone turned to stare at him, he shrugged his shoulders. "Contact poison. It's what I would do."

"The archaeologists discovered a small part of the treasure and then, after a couple of hours, fell sick. They didn't tell me about their finding at first, only yesterday evening one of them spilt the beans... " The expression on Jessica's face spoke volumes about the horrors she must have witnessed. "If they had told me earlier... With the right ingredients I can make an antidote for those who are still alive… I contacted a supplier and placed an order, but with all the soldiers around he's not willing to come to Palmyra, he's insisting on meeting in the desert… and that's only part of the problem. The rest of the gold is still hidden away somewhere in the ruins of the temple."

"And that is a problem exactly why?" Ames was definitely exasperated by the doctor's secretive way of speaking.

"Maybe because the Syrian military got wind of the findings? If they get their hands on the gold and spread it because they don't believe or don't know about the poison... with the symptoms only setting in after a couple of hours, it's a possibility." Again everyone looked at Guerrero. He, in turn, pointed at the now dark horizon, where small lights announced the rapid approach of several vehicles.

Judging from the position of the headlights, it were military vehicles...


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.  
><strong>  
>Chance didn't waste any time: "Winston, where are the earpieces?"<p>

They quickly distributed the devices among themselves. The humming of the military vehicles rapidly grew louder and soon their headlight beams were sweeping the area close to them.

"Ilsa and Ames, go and find the professor's tent in the archeologists' camp. Try to figure out where they discovered the gold coins. Maybe that'll lead us to the rest of the treasure. Winston and Guerrero, go to the excavation site and wait for instructions from Ilsa and Ames. Jessica and I will talk to the military."

"You sure I shouldn't do the talking?" Winston quickly adjusted his ear piece. "Don't get me wrong, but diplomacy isn't exactly your strong side."

"Dude, this is Syria, not Egypt. Pharaoh's curse won't get you. Let Chance do the talking, he's the only one who speaks enough Arabic." Guerrero retrieved something that looked like a small military survival pack from his luggage and shouldered it.

"Just don't want the conversation to end in the literary explosive way…" Winston muttered as he followed Guerrero into the darkness, just in time to avoid getting caught by a headlight.

"As if _talking_ could prevent that anyhow", Ilsa thought darkly. Quietly she and Ames advanced towards the tents of the deserted archaeologists' camp. The humming of the engines had turned into roaring now.

Soon enough five jeeps pulled up in front of Chance and Jessica, manned with six heavily armed soldiers each. A thin but tall man in the first jeep, apparently the unit leader, went down to business immediately – he started talking even before his vehicle had come to a complete stop. "Gold coins have been found that belong to the people of Syria. We're here to make sure they stay in the possession of their rightful owners." His English was broken, but comprehensible.

"It's not as easy as that…", Chance began.

… … …

"Looks like the archaeologists discovered a subterranean tunnel system underneath the temple", Ilsa told Winston and Guerrero, pouring over what looked like a half-finished ground plan on a wobbly desk in the professor's tent. Ames was illuminating it with a tiny flashlight, hoping the soldiers wouldn't notice. So far none of them had come near the archeologists' camp. Well, naturally they'd be more interested in the dig site itself.

"Yeah, we've found the entrance of it", Winston confirmed.

"The coins were all discovered in a tunnel leading westwards, together with …uh…"

"Don't tell them!", Ames chimed in.

Predictably the men didn't take kindly to that comment.

"You realize we can hear you, dude, don't you?"

"Don't tell us WHAT, Ames?"

"The coins were found together with…" Ilsa hesitated and decided against being too specific. "…a couple of skeletons." In an attempt to divert the men's attention, she then quickly added: "Maybe tomb raiders. Many ancient graves were plundered only days after the funeral. Thus the many curses on the walls of Egyptian pyramids."

"But this is a temple, not a tomb." Good, the distraction was working with Winston.

"Tomb raiders or not, they died of something very quickly." Trust Guerrero to point out the bright side of things.

Anxiously Ilsa and Ames listened to the sounds coming in over the earpiece. Scrunching and scraping, boots on sand-covered floors that hadn't been used in a thousand years. On the other channel they could hear Chance, speaking Arabic. Apparently he had switched to the unit leader's native language to explain the poison issue more clearly. It didn't sound like the conversation was going well.

"You're already walking down that tunnel, aren't you?", Ilsa asked Winston and Guerrero.

"Not much of a choice. Chance won't be able to stop the soldiers for long", Guerrero replied. "Let's hope the doc was right and it was really just poison and not some airborne fungal thing after all... Dude, watch your step!"

"You're worried about me damaging some ancient piece of man's cultural heritage, or what? If this is another crack about my size…" Winston steadied himself after tripping over yet another skeleton he hadn't seen in the dim beam of the flashlight.

Not for long, though.

The wall he was leaning against gave way. Not in the elegant, astonishing way a hidden secret door would give way, no, it simply broke into pieces. In 1089 a major earthquake had hit Palmyra. Apparently it had not only destroyed what had been left of the ancient city's visible part, it had also weakened the subterranean structure of the Ba'al temple. Winston, unable to keep his balance, stumbled through the new opening into an adjacent room.

Unfortunately not for long again.

His weight was simply too much for the old floor – it made a loud, groaning sound and Winston fell again. At least only briefly... Rattling metallic sounds announced that he had landed somewhere.

"Guerrero? Guerrero? What has happened?" Ilsa via earpiece. On both channels she had heard shouting, shooting, crashing, it was impossible to tell what was happening where.

Cautiously Guerrero shone his flashlight down the hole. His face turned grave at what he saw. "Well, the good news is, we found the rest of the treasure. Bad news is Winston just took a bath in a ton of poisoned coins."

"Sounds like really good news", a stranger's voice in broken English replied.

Oh damn. The shouting and shooting on Chance's side of things... Apparently the unit leader had somehow gotten hold of the earpiece.

"Don't triumph too soon." Chance's voice via earpiece, ragged, but he sounded okay. "Looks like the local rebels want to have a say in the matter, too. These cars there don't look military, but the weapons do - didn't you lose an arms delivery in an ambush lately?"

Ilsa and Ames couldn't see it, but judging from the ruckus outside in the distance and from what she had heard via Chance's earpiece, a group of local partisans had arrived to find out what the military was up to in the ruins.

... ... ...

Not only the women listened to everything that was going on with a sinking heart, though. Winston, lying on the coins that were slowly passing on their poison to him, he realized that, should either the rebels or the soldiers get their hands on the gold, chances were there would be poisoning victims all over Syria. The danger that they would spread it before the symptoms set in was just too big. Lives were at stake. Many lives.

"Guerrero!", he yelled.

"What is it, dude?"

"Can you seal the tunnel shut with an explosion? I know you've got C4 with you…"

"Dude, you hit your head during the fall."

Winston took a deep breath. "No, I didn't. I'm asking you to seal the damn tunnel so that neither the rebels nor the soldiers will get to us without heavy equipment which they most likely don't have with them. This will give Chance and the doctor time to get the antidote and us time to figure out what to do with both parties."

Guerrero just looked at him for a long moment. "You realize what you're doing, Dude?"

"Yes. Trusting Chance."


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.  
><strong>  
><em><strong>AN: Big thank you to PocketSevens for very helpful input and niagaraweasel for betaing this! **_

The local rebels and the soldiers immediately collided. Gun shots were fired even before the approaching cars came to a halt.

The unit leader, however, was not stupid. He didn't make the mistake of turning around and checking what was going on between his people and the new arrivals. Actually he was a pretty good judge of character and instinctively knew Chance was no one to turn your back on. Unfortunately that left Chance not much choice but to attack him directly.

Sidestep to the right, lunge to the left, a twist in the air and a firm yank at the rifle the unit leader was carrying served well to throw him off balance, but Chance knew he couldn't stop there. This required more rigorous tactics and the good doctor wouldn't like it.

With one fluid motion he flipped the rifle over, got hold of its stock, jerked it upwards and hit the man straight in his face with the gun's butt. The bridge of his nose broke with a thickening crack. The unit leader crashed to the ground.

Predictably, Jessica dashed forward, her doctor's instincts kicking in and overriding all sense of self-preservation. Chance grabbed her around the waist and without further ado threw her over his shoulder. With his free hand he retrieved his ear piece and put it back in.

"What are you doing?", Jessica protested. "If a piece of bone rides up into his brain… I need to check on him."

"Winston needs us and this is our only chance to get away", Chance said firmly, hurrying over to one of the jeeps. A heavy shootout was going on between rebels and soldiers, nobody paid the vehicles much attention, but still, with objecting Jessica hanging upside down his back, no easy task."

"What if he dies?", Jessica insisted as he dumped her in the passenger's seat.

"What if Winston dies?", he replied, staring ahead fiercely determined as he floored the gas pedal. "We need to meet your supplier."

Off they went into the desert night.

… … …

"This is just not right", Ilsa murmured, listening to the turmoil outside.

"Winston is trying to save all these people…", Ames replied quietly. She was very worried. She and Winston went way back… he had given her a chance when no one else would have… letting her go for that B & E… she had disregarded that chance, had carried on regardless… the look on his face when he arrested her two weeks later for something else…

"I'm not talking about Winston…", Ilsa said. "The rebels and the soldiers will fight till one side comes out on top. Then the winners will get heavy equipment and open the sealed tunnel to get to the gold…"

"Chance will be back by then. He'll find a way to save Winston and Guerrero."

Ilsa shook her head. "And the rebels or soldiers will walk away with all the gold? Even if we somehow manage to render the poison harmless, this is just not right. No matter who wins, the gold will be used to bring death and destruction. The unit leader was right, it belongs to the people of Syria and it should help the people of Syria, not put them at risk."

"Maybe the rebels win."

"Do we know anything about them except that they're rebels? What you're implying is an "the enemy of my enemy is a friend"-strategy. It's bloody dangerous! Ever heard of the Taliban?" Maybe it was forcing herself not to worry about Winston that made Ilsa feels so strongly about this issue. "There must be another solution."

For a long moment, while outside the gunshots were unceasing, she stared off into space, unconsciously nibbling at her lower lip.

Damn, Ames wished she could help somehow, but she was a pickpocket, a safecracker, a thief, there was nothing she could…

…oh…

…maybe if…

She walked over to the wobbly desk and studied the ground plan a lot more intensely than before. "I might have thought of something", she told Ilsa.

To Ames' astonishment, Ilsa made a hectic gesture that signaled her to be quiet and listen. What was it, were people advancing towards the tent?

No, she couldn't hear anything that pointed in that direction. In fact she couldn't hear anything at all.

Oh no.

The ear pieces had gone dead.

… … …

Hours had passed by since Guerrero had sealed the tunnel and Winston was beginning to show symptoms of poisoning. Guerrero, who had carefully lowered himself down that hole, too, was by his side. "You've got to drink something, dude. Dehydration will worsen your state." He put a flask to Winston's lips.

"We've both seen what this shit does to a person", he croaked as Guerrero screwed it shut again.

"Chance and the doctor are out in the desert, don't worry, they'll be back in time."

"If they don't…", Winston began.

"I know you need most of your blood to keep all that extra padding supplied, but you do remember telling me that you're trusting Chance, don't you?"

Winston shook his head. Every move, even the slightest shift of weight was painful by now. "If they, for some reason don't make it back here in time…"

"Dude…"

"Don't let me kick the bucket like those poor bastards under the quicklime. Make it fast and painless."

"Winston…"

Guerrero got up and wordlessly walked away from him, as far as the tiny room they were in allowed without getting too close to the poisoned treasure. If only the damn earpieces hadn't gone dead…

Winston's eyesight was getting weaker and he was losing his sense of time. He couldn't tell how long Guerrero stood there in the semi-darkness, staring at the heap of gold that was slowly killing him.

Then Winston started shivering violently. The last stage of the poisoning was sitting in. From now on it would only be minutes, an hour max till they would reach the point of no return after which no antidote would save him and he was condemned to a horrible death.

Guerrero walked back to Winston's side of the room, sat down and pulled him in his arms till his back was firmly pressed to his chest. It was a comforting gesture, but they both knew it was also a position which allowed the embracing person to quickly shift, grab the other person's head and break his neck with one forceful motion. When Guerrero rested his arms on Winston's shoulders, Winston knew he was doing it to get him used to the sensation of physical contact in his neck area. Should Guerrero decide to go ahead and fulfill Winston's request, Winston wouldn't see it coming.

"Guerrero", Winston whispered after a while.

"Not yet, dude."

"No, wiseass, I wasn't talking about…there's sand trickling down from the ceiling… " He was becoming incoherent, but Guerrero knew what he meant. Winston wanted him to wipe his face. The poison could cause sensory hallucinations. Guerrero reached out, slowly, let his palm hover over Winston's face for a moment…strange. There really was sand coming down from above in a continuous trickle. Was the ceiling coming down on top of everything else?

As if on cue, the wall right above them started groaning, just like it had sounded when Winston had broken through the ceiling. Guerrero was just about to pull Winston aside when suddenly, elegantly and astonishingly, a small secret plate in the wall moved aside.

"Some rules of architecture just don't change", she exclaimed jubilantly. "I knew they couldn't have built this thing without air ducts!"

A single word from Guerrero, however, brought her back to the present situation. "Antidote?"

Her face fell and she shook her head. "No word from Chance yet." At least she had brought fresh water and a couple of pain pills that would slightly soften the poison's effects. It was hard, following Ilsa's orders after seeing Winston and seeing in what dire state he was in, but on the other hand, standing around and staring at him wouldn't help either.

Protected with gloves she started removing the gold from the chamber through the air duct. Both she and Ilsa were aware that they wouldn't be able to get all of the treasure out, it was simply too much, but with every coin removed there would be one bomb or one gun less that could be bought. They'd treat the coins they couldn't remove with the disinfectant Ilsa had found at Jessica's makeshift clinic. This should take care of the poison.

For a while Winston and Guerrero watched Ames work. It was when she had disappeared into the air duct for about the twelfth time when Winston was in so much in pain that he started thrashing around.

"I'm going to tell her to stay away next time she shows up", Guerrero said.

"Why stay away?" Ames came hectically climbing out of the secret entrance again. She crawled out so fast, she almost stumbled when she jumped down.

Ames, the practiced thief who could climb like a cat.

This could only mean one thing.

"With greetings from Chance", she said and quickly handed Guerrero the antidote in a syringe.


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.  
><strong>  
>"I don't need sleeping pills." As if to underline his determination, Winston pressed his lips together.<p>

"I'm your doctor, you're my patient, if I tell you that you need sleeping pills, you do." Jessica was just as determined as Winston.

"Hey, everything okay with him?" Chance entered the hospital tent. "Got your message."

"Exceptional stubbornness aside, he's doing fine", Jessica replied, clearly frustrated.

Winston kept his lips firmly sealed.

"Stubborn? That means he's definitely he's definitely on the mend ", Chance winked. "So, if nothing's wrong with him, why did you call me down here?"

"I figured this would be a good opportunity to check your back and see how the wound developed", Jessica explained, suddenly sounding very professional and businesslike.

"You mean the wound I received over a year ago in that mine, when we were trapped?" He arched an eyebrow at her in mock seriousness. His eyes were twinkling with mischief.

"A professional look at it wouldn't hurt, would it?", Jessica shrugged as casually as possible. "Just to be on the safe side."

Looking from Chance to the doctor and back, Winston realized what was going on and groaned. "Give me the damn sleeping pills", he grumpily told Jessica.

… … …

"Somebody's asking questions about you."

Guerrero decided that he had definitely heard that sentence a little too often lately.

"Red-headed cop, heavy Irish accent?", he asked his informant.

The answer came as no surprise. Damn, she had managed to follow his trail all the way to California and he still had no idea what she could want from him.

"Let me guess – no name?"

"Still working on it."

Guerrero stared off into space for a moment. He was standing on the platform the doc had shown them on the day of their arrival. Up here his cell phone signal was best. It was only a trick of the light, caused by the setting sun, but Zenobia looked as if she was staring daggers at him.

"Pity you're not a pharaoh, hm?", Guerrero thought, grinning at the idea of what the ancient poisoner would have to say about those intruders who robbed her treasure and bathed it in floor disinfectant.

From the platform he had a good view of the hospital tent. Chance had disappeared in there quite a while ago. Guerrero seriously doubted that he was sitting with Winston. All that open flirting with the doctor in his presence and now a lengthy nighttime visit? Chance had seen him up here, knew he'd draw conclusions… He was sending him a message.

_Yes, bro, I got it. But Ilsa has a say in that matter, too, doesn't she? _

"Guerrero, man. You still there?" His informant was getting anxious. Prolonged silence from Guerrero, never a good sign.

"I'll be back in the city the day after tomorrow. Would be great if I could have a chat with her then. Take her on a trip to the garage."

He snapped his phone shut.

"And here I was, thinking you were admiring the view." Ilsa came walking up the stairs to the platform. "Anything I should know?"

She had brought a blanket. Meticulously she spread it on the ground. The stones were still warm from the sunlight.

"I wouldn't have let you interfere in the Philippa issue, I'm not planning to now", Guerrero replied curtly.

"So another Chance protection measurement of yours?" She had also brought a basket and was now producing tea cups and a thermos bottle from it.

Not exactly, but Ilsa didn't know that and there was no reason to enlighten her. "Somebody's got to do it."

Of course Ilsa sensed the hidden accusation. She was starting to regret her decision to attempt peacemaking with Guerrero. "I'm protecting Chance, too."

His reaction consisted of an arched eyebrow and a single word. "Philippa?"

"Everything has limits." Reluctantly, she poured the tea. Even more reluctantly she offered him a cup.

"When it comes to Chance, there are no limits." Guerrero waited and watched what impact his words had on Ilsa. She blinked, but she didn't withdraw the cup. He thought of her giving up her position with the board...

As he reached out to accept the cup, his fingers brushed against hers.

For a long while they just sat and sipped at their cups as the last golden beams of the sunset vanished and left nothing but pitch blackness.

"We should go inside", he finally said. "Desert nights are cold."

… … …

Desert nights were indeed cold, but Ames was outside nevertheless. Watching the hospital tent where Chance had disappeared over an hour ago. There was only a single lantern light still glowing in the tent. Didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on down there.

Shivering, Ames wrapped her arms closer around her. She should really go inside. And where was this strange feeling in her stomach suddenly coming from? Something between nausea and anger…

The realization hit her like a freight train.

Oh boy.

She was jealous.


	29. shadow of doubt

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_** ~ shadow of doubt ~**_

"I know you're affiliated with the man they call Guerrero." Lt. Peale was very, very serious. "I've always known."

Peale was one of their oldest contacts at SFPD. He had, among many others, referred the Dobbs bullet train case to them. They considered him a friend and he considered them the best in the business.

"Not an affiliation I welcomed, but I could condone it as long as you didn't rub it in my face. I appreciate that he was always gone before I arrived." Peale didn't touch the coffee Winston had poured him.

"What has changed?", Chance asked.

Ilsa, watching him, realized that she had hardly ever seen him so solemn and austere.

Peale produced a portrait photo of a red-haired woman in a foreign police uniform. "Grace O'Malley, an inspector of Ireland's An Garda Síochána."

"Never seen her", Chance replied. Somehow Ilsa didn't even _feel_ the urge to say something. Through Chance's tone it was clear that he was speaking for all of them here and without any previous arrangement she was keeping her mouth shut just like Winston and Ames.

"O'Malley left Ireland over a month ago, taking an unpaid leave. She flew to Houston and rented a car. We're not sure yet what she did in the meantime, but a week ago she showed up here, in San Francisco, asking questions about your friend Guerrero. Now she's vanished – poof. Gone from the face of the earth. Apparently she used to call her mother every evening. No call in the last two days, nobody's seen her, nobody's heard of her, bed in the hotel room's untouched… "

Peale let the info sink in. Neither Chance's nor Winston's face showed any visible reaction. Ames and Ilsa followed their example as best as they could.

"I know that more crimes and cruelties are attributed to Guerrero's name than he could possibly ever commit, but this is a different story. We don't know what she wanted from him, still waiting for word from Dublin, but she definitely was after him and now she's gone… doesn't take a genius…" Peale's face was just as grave as Chance's.

"Two days ago Guerrero was with us in Syria. We've got flight and travel documents that prove it." Chance threw Ilsa a look that indicated she should go and get the papers. Without thinking Ilsa got up, then realized what she had just done.

"I'm part of his crew. I'm following his lead", she thought and wondered what that said about her. She never got to leave the conference room, however, since Peale stopped her with a wave of his hand.

"Don't bother. You and I both know Guerrero doesn't need to be physically present to wreak havoc." He got up. As he pushed the chair away, his untouched coffee spilt over.

"So far we've never had enough on Guerrero to pin him down. But we're talking about an international incident here. I won't be able to help you in this."

Peale's last sentence revealed the nature of his visit – it was a heads up. A shit storm was rising.

The elevator's doors had barely closed behind him when they heard footsteps coming down the metal stairs from Chance's living-quarters. Thanks to the microphones he kept hidden everywhere, he had heard every word.

"Till later then", Guerrero said and proceeded to disappear through the door that led to the staircase. Ilsa took a deep breath and got ready for a repetition of the infamous Philippa collision when, much to her relief, Chance stepped in.

"You're not going anywhere."

"None of your business, Chance." Guerrero's tone of voice didn't leave much room for interpretation. He was planning to deal with this alone.

Maybe it was the "part of his crew" realization that made Ilsa do what she did next. She had never been a good follower and the fact that she, only moments ago, had wanted to do Chance's bidding without second thought had definitely left a mark.

"Are you planning to go and check _the garage_?", she asked. Both Chance and Winston wheeled around and stared at her. Ames looked puzzled, too, but it was the reaction of the men that counted.

"Nobody's in the garage." Guerrero locked eyes with Ilsa and she felt the urge to get her coat. Unbelievable that she had drank tea with this man hardly a day ago.

"Ilsa, what are you talking about?" Winston was highly alarmed. "Chance! What is she talking about?"

"I overheard a telephone conversation. Guerrero told someone to take _her_ on a _trip_ to _the garage_", Ilsa explained to the others._ "_You were talking about that police woman, weren't you?" Now she was directly confronting Guerrero.

Silence reigned.

Finally Chance spoke up. "Don't go all "private business" on us in this, Guerrero", he said softly.

"Couldn't get hold of her. My guy tried, but he didn't find her. She disappeared after a visit to Drake's." Guerrero's voice was devoid of any emotion.

"What did she want from you? What have you done in Ireland?" Winston was getting all worked up now. They were talking about a cop here, for heaven's sake! It was worse enough when Guerrero used his methods on underworld scum, but, Irish or not, a member of the force? It didn't help that somewhere in the back of his mind Leonard spoke up: _And still you're here, with _him_, instead of accompanying Peale, feeding him with every info on Guerrero he needs._

The telephone on Winston's desk rang and Ames went to answer it.

"Why do you think I wanted to take her to the garage? Cocktails? Have no idea what she wanted."

At this, Winston exploded. "YOU WERE PLANNING TO TORTURE A…."

"Um, guys?" Ames was back from Winston's desk, phone in hand. "Timing's not great, I know, but – judging from the "Someone wants to kill me!" he keeps yelling into the receiver –I think we've got ourselves a new client."


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"You wanna waste more time on this or safe some dude's ass?" Guerrero's question sounded like it was directed at all of them, but his eyes were resting on Ilsa.

It didn't go unnoticed by Chance.

Winston made a deep, disapproving grunting sound, but nodded in acquiescence. So did Ilsa, just without the grunt. Chance and Ames didn't need to nod. Grabbing guns and other equipment on the way, they headed towards the elevator.

Chance, however, let himself fall back and grabbed Ilsa by the arm.

"I can't ask you to trust him in this. It doesn't look good, the facts speak against him. You've got to make up your mind yourself. But maybe a change of scenery helps." He pushed a piece of paper into her hand, then made a beeline for the elevator.

Ilsa waited till the elevator had disappeared and only then dared to look at the scrap. It was an address in the Mission district and two rows of numbers and letters.

Codes.

The realization what Chance had just given her hit her like a freight train. It was not only that he was not asking her to trust Guerrero on his word alone, he had also put a lot of trust in her by giving her what she assumed was the location of the garage.

_The_ garage.

A huge part of her simply didn't want to go there, didn't want to see. The other, smaller part, however, kept telling her that she needed to face this. By giving up her position with the board she had chosen to walk down a certain road. Was she really and absolutely sure about this?

Ilsa decided it wouldn't be wise to use her limousine and driver. A taxi was out of question, too. But as she drove Winston's car through what appeared to be one of the seediest parts of San Francisco, she was getting second thoughts.

At least the windows were bullet proof. Winston had only noticed that recently, during a job. Nobody was more surprised than he was when a projectile meant for his head got stuck in the glass. How the hell…? He had asked Chance, but Chance had claimed innocence. So who in the world had replaced the windows of his car without him noticing? Ilsa had no way to verify it, but she had an inkling.

Anyway, Winston's SatNav was guiding her through streets that seemed to grow darker and more ominous by the minute. Boarded up shops, homeless people gathering around burning garbage cans, dirt and signs of neglect everywhere… She started wondering where she was supposed to park the car and how in the world she should manage to master the distance between parked car and garage without getting mugged or worse, when the SatNav suddenly told her she had reached her destination.

Trust Guerrero to choose the darkest place possible for his dungeon.

All the streetlamps in the vicinity were broken. Surely not a coincidence. Only a single, very tiny light shone at her in the darkness.

It was blood red.

A keypad in the wall, next to a boarded up shop window.

Ilsa drove up to it, rolled down the window and punched in the first code Chance had given her with shaking fingers, careful not to mistype. This was Guerrero's facility, surely equipped with security measures especially designed by him. Typing errors indicated someone who was not supposed to be here was trying to gain access. Ilsa wasn't keen on finding out what Guerrero had planned for that poor soul.

It took the system a moment to process Ilsa's request for entry. A damn long moment for Ilsa who was sitting in the darkness waiting for something to explode right underneath her.

When the seemingly boarded up shop window in the wall suddenly started moving and revealed itself as a cleverly concealed garage door, she jumped from sheer tension. Slowly she let the car roll downwards into the subterranean garage.

She wasn't sure what she had expected, but surely not a small space to park your car. For that's what it was – a room with a fire extinguisher in the back and aside from that nothing but moist cement walls.

There had to be more to this. Chance had given her two codes. But there was no second blood red light in sight. How…?

Ilsa looked at the second code again. It slightly differed from the first one. No letters. It looked more like a…

Yes, indeed…

What if…?

She hesitated for a moment, thinking about possible security measures of the exploding kind again.

In the end she figured Chance wouldn't have given her the codes if this could be potentially dangerous for her. She quickly produced her cell phone and typed in the second code. Lo and behold, a part of the floor slid aside, revealing a narrow flight of stairs.

Cautiously, very cautiously, Ilsa made her way down the steps. There had to be a light switch somewhere, but she didn't find it and thus descended into complete darkness. The pungent stench of bleach and floor disinfectant welcomed her. Halfway down the stairs, the door in the floor above her slid shut again. Pitch black darkness surrounded her. She imagined being trapped down here. The smell was suffocating.

At the foot of the stairs she finally found a light switch. She flipped it and all of a sudden blinding bright light illuminated a cavernous room with cement walls. There was a drain in the floor that didn't bode well, but aside from that and the metal chair screwed in tight in the middle of the place, this didn't look at all like the medieval dungeon she had expected.

Her footsteps echoed in the room as she walked over to what to an innocent visitor must have looked like a workbench. Various tools were neatly attached to the wall above it. Ilsa's imagination went into overdrive, thinking about what Guerrero might do with them, what pain he might cause whatever wretched creature had the misfortune of ending up tied to that chair.

But there was also another thought. One that didn't really help her process the horror she was feeling in this cold, almost clinical place of torture. Nevertheless it grew stronger, haunted her out of the room, up the stairs, didn't leave her alone while she was calling the number again to make the door slide open, kept a firm hold of her while she was heading back to the office and there, at her desk, was practically screaming at her:

Guerrero couldn't be responsible for the policewoman's disappearance. A man that meticulous, that careful, he wouldn't have caused so much attention. He was innocent in this, someone was trying to frame him.

But that was not a helpful thought at all, dammit! Ilsa grabbed one of the white glass pears on her desk and smashed it into pieces.

She had just visited a torture chamber – a real, modern day torture chamber, belonging to someone who was not only in her employ, she also considered him a friend and maybe…

Bloody hell!

And then she realized something else… the variety of tools she had seen indicated various degrees of pain. She tried to remember what she knew about Guerrero's methods, things he had told her in the year they were now working together… _"Always apply just as much pressure as is necessary. Everything is else a waste of time and energy."_

Necessity…

That was what she had sensed in that room, aside from everything else. Guerrero was acting violent out of what he felt was necessary, not because he enjoyed it…

Could she tolerate that?

At this very moment the elevator door signaled and the doors slid open – the team was back, with the new client, apparently. He displayed a bloody gash on his forehead and looked very shaken, but also very, very grateful.

"Without you, I'd be dead by now", he kept repeating as Winston poured him a spiked coffee.

_Without you I'd be dead by now..._

"I see another one of your pears learned flying", Guerrero commented as she walked past him on the way to greet the client.

"I'm going to order a new one", she said.

"What color?"

Ilsa took a deep breath. "Black", she said.


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_"You've managed to get yourself into shitty situations before, but this one… Having the hots for Chance, jeez, this is bound to end in disaster…" _Ames made an angry snorting noise and only then realized that the sound could be interpreted as a comment on their new client's story of how he had found out someone was trying to kill him.

A disdainful comment, as if she regarded his words as unimportant.

Great timing, he had just told them that he was really, really worried about his wife, he had tried to call her from the restaurant where he had been hiding and during the ride in the van and just couldn't get hold of her.

Everybody around the table fell silent and stared at her.

"Yes, Ms. Ames?", Ilsa asked, in her most professional "I'm the boss here"-tone.

She always sounded more British when she did that, Ames thought idly. Maybe they taught that as a subject for their O-Levels or A-Levels or whatever? Did Chance find that accent attractive?

Ilsa made a sharp intake of breath through clenched teeth.

"I..uh…it's nothing…I just… need to…" Ames let the sentence trail off in some incoherent rambling, got up, then didn't know what to do next but didn't want to look like an idiot even more than she already did and decided to head out of the conference room in the direction of the bathroom, so that they'd assume she needed to go to the toilet or whatever.

Heavens.

What had gotten into her? This morning everything had been fine. Chance had had his breakfast wearing nothing but his jeans and she hadn't wasted a single thought on the ridiculous "him and her"-issue. His muscular chest had been right in front of her in all its chiseled glory and she hadn't choked once on her cereal.

A sleepless night in a tent in Syria and lots of time to think things through during the flight back to Frisco had led her to the conclusion that what she was having right now was so good, was something she had never had before, she dammit didn't want to lose it just because a bunch of hormones was suddenly clouding her judgment.

She had decided she wanted to be a responsible adult for a change, making responsible adult decisions.

So NO CHANCE.

Yes, pun intended.

But then the goddamn idiot had flirted with some waitress to get the client out of the restaurant where he had been hiding and WHAM, all reasonable thought went out the window. She was jealous again. Great.

Just as she was crossing the foyer to get back to the conference room after having waited for a credible span of time in the bathroom, the doorbell announced a visitor. Ames looked at the monitor on Winston's desk. It showed a woman in her forties. She was kind of mousy, her clothes looked like something a shop assistant in a town of the bible belt had suggested. Her hair cut indicated that she had shown the hairdresser a picture of an actress twenty years younger than her – "I want to look like that!" and he had tried doing his best.

"Try" being the operative word here.

"That's Mrs. Brune", Winston explained as he buzzed her in.

Ames frowned.

"Our client's wife, Ames. His name is Mr. Timothy Brune, so she is Mrs. Brune", he told her in that sweet voice usually reserved for Guerrero just before he was losing his patience with him.

Jeez, she hadn't even paid attention to the client's name… Just how far had she been gone, caught up in ridiculous illusions?

When the woman stepped out of the elevator Ames realized that part of the mousy impression she was making was coming from her shaking all over. "I'm so sorry I couldn't answer the phone earlier", she said as she fell into her husband's arms. "I had the oddest accident."

Apparently someone had tried to push her into the Bay, complete with her car.

"So now someone is not only after me, but also after my wife?" The client was horrified. "But why? I have no enemies! My company produces office supplies! I swear I've never given anyone even the slightest reason to kill me – I've no idea what all of this is about!"

"Yeah, that's what they all say", Guerrero grunted.

Ilsa arched an eyebrow and threw him a pointed look. "Oh, really?", it said.

Complete with British accent.


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

To say Mrs. Brune was shocked when she found out that someone was trying to kill her husband was putting it mildly. Her face went white as a ghost's and she was shaking all over. Guerrero slipped a mild sedative into her coffee.

Mr. Brune was taking it better after the initial shock had subsided. "I'll have to make several phone calls… got to talk to my secretary… or better directly to my brother… he owns the company with me, you know? … cancel appointments… these secure telephone lines I keep hearing about on TV, do they really exist, do you have something like that?" He glanced around the office, probably looking for a red phone with nothing but a single button to push in the middle of where the dial should be.

"Hiding is no solution", Chance interfered before Brune could get on a roll. "Unless you and your wife want to spend the rest of your lives running away, you've got to confront the threat."

Here came the puzzled facial expression that clients always showed when they were introduced to the team's special methods.

"We'll make you appear as vulnerable as possible so that the attacker strikes again", Winston explained, his large left hand underlining his words with reassuring gestures. "But of course you'll never really be exposed to danger."

Ilsa and Ames discretely crossed their fingers underneath the conference room's computer table.

"Chance will be in the closest proximity possible, blending in as an auditor, a newly hired lawyer or something in that direction." Had Winston crossed his fingers, too? His right hand was only now reappearing from underneath the table.

Predictably, Brune looked skeptical. At that point clients always did. Time to quickly move on to the next step of the rescue plan, before he was getting second thoughts about hiring these particular people.

"Is there any grander appointment for you in the near future? The bigger the event the more likely the threat will use it to strike again." Chance had taken over explaining now.

"There's this weekend coaching seminar for the upper management level of my company. It's designed to strengthen our employees' trust in the firm and each other. Our wives were supposed to spend time with the employees' families in a facility nearby while my brother and I wanted to take part in the seminar itself." Brune shrugged. "Leading by example, you know."

"Oh yes, that's a wonderful leadership philosophy", Ilsa chimed in. "I've had a lot of success with this strategy. And it will be perfect for us to stay close to you without raising suspicion."

Chance looked at her. His expression said _"us?"_ .

Ilsa returned the look. It said: _Of course "us" – I have proven myself, haven't I? _

Chance shrugged, indicating that if she was so fiercely determined to be out in the field and play an active part, then be it.

Ilsa allowed herself a triumphant smile. "What will the seminar be about?", she asked Brune.

"Survival in the wilderness."

Very suddenly, Chance turned his head away, covered his mouth with his right hand and made some sort of coughing noise that sounded a lot like suppressed laughter.

Ilsa's eyes, meanwhile, had grown wide and she all of a sudden seemed to be a bit fidgety. "Oh, yes… I've heard of these seminars… they involve camping in the open, don't they?"

"And living off what nature grants us – roots, berries, insects, worms…if we're lucky we'll catch a water vole. The families at the facility get off lucky, in comparison. They'll be allowed to sleep in tents."

"Well, I'm sure Mr. Chance and maybe Mr. Guerrero will be perfect as participants of that seminar. You could introduce them as new employees", Ilsa suggested, hectically tapping her expensive pen against the even more expensive computer table. "Mr. Winston and Ms. Ames will serve as backup, they can stay with your wife at the facility nearby and assist, should any problems arise."

"Are you okay?", the client asked Chance. "This cough of yours doesn't sound good."

"Don't worry, I'm fine", Chance assured him, voice croaky. "Now, Ilsa, if Guerrero and I go with the group and Ames and Winston serve as backup, what will you do?"

Ilsa felt her skin go red. Bloody hell, he had seen through her maneuver! But now it was too late to change direction. "I'll check the background information", she replied as professional and businesslike as possible.

"Background info…" Chance nodded appreciatively. "Such as…?" His eyes were gleaming and a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.

A barely detectable moment of awkward silence passed as Ilsa desperately tried to think of something.

"_The usual stuff_, Mr. Chance", she finally replied.

Neither of the Brunes noticed that her voice was a little too sharp and her posture a little too upright and stiff to be real. She was only pretending to be confident and self-assured.

Everybody on the team, however, knew immediately.

And Ilsa knew that they knew.

Oh yeah, they had really grown together. Kizuna. The tattoo on her shoulder blade suddenly felt alive, like some sort of insect, teasing her with its long legs.

"So then it's decided." Chance was openly grinning now. "Guerrero and I will participate in the survival training seminar and keep an eye on Mr. Brune. Mrs. Brune will be in the custody of Winston and Ames. Mrs. Pucci will check _the usual stuff._"

Mrs. Pucci felt the urge to kick _the usual stuff_, aka his bloody smirk, off Mr. Chance's face.


	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"There has to be an instruction manual somewhere…" Ames said, frowning at the sight of the lumpy oversized bag in camouflage colors that Guerrero had given them before heading off into the woods with Chance and the managers of Brune's company.

"Instruction manual? To set up a tent? Do you see anyone here using a goddamn instruction manual?"

All around them mothers with kids of every age clinging to their backs, pulling at their legs or crawling in front of their feet not only managed to set up their tents in no time, they also did that with campfire songs on their lips.

Winston opened one of the bag's many zippers.

"Don't need no instruction manual…"

Tumbling out came at least a dozen different hooks.

"Outdoor survival training was an essential part of police academy training and I was one of the best."

He opened another zipper – there were the ropes.

Six different sorts.

"Manual! Manuals are for…"

He got to the poles. Don't ask how many he found. Just don't ask.

"Look for the manual while I'll try to sort this out at least a little", Winston grumbled, silently cursing Guerrero. _"I can lend you a tent." _He should have been warned. When had Guerrero EVER made a generous offer?

Ames started rummaging in the bag while Winston unfurled the tent's various tarps.

"Uh-huh, looks like you got yourself a dome tent there", a boy of a about nine with freckles and huge glasses remarked. His family occupied the tent opposite from them. "My sis and I can help you. Only ten dollars."

"Get lost. We've got a manual", Winston grunted, still busy unfurling the stiff and heavy tarp.

"Uh, Winston?", Ames called from behind. "We might have a problem there. The manual is in…"

"Russian", Winston snarled, staring at a small red hammer and sickle emblem sewn into the corner of one of the tarps. And he bet the Cyrillic writing right next to it said 1st Guards Army.

To hell with you, Guerrero!

… … …

While Ames was busy paying a girl with cherry pudding to pour it over Winston's back and run off so that he was distracted with chasing her and paying another five kids 50 dollars to set up the tent, Ilsa was sitting at her desk in the office, going through the bloody "usual stuff".

For actually there was "usual stuff". It was normally just Winston's job to take a look at it, not hers. They always checked their client's background. Most clients, consciously or unconsciously, didn't tell them everything about the trouble they had gotten themselves into.

Some simply weren't aware that the observation they had made or the conversation they had overheard was important enough to get killed for. Some kept a skeleton or two in their closet that they'd like to remain there. Some outright tried to play foul.

Just like Mr. Brune?

Ilsa was good with numbers. This was how she had caught Marshall's attention in the first place – by making a calculation faster than his bunch of lawyers. He had been thoroughly impressed by this new intern and had invited her to dinner. Things had kind of developed from there.

What would he say if he saw the numbers she was looking at now?

Withdrawals, a week ago. From a bank account in Switzerland. Timothy Brune's bank account in Switzerland. What had he needed so much money for? Ilsa decided to let the matter rest for the moment and looked at the other documents – phone records, credit card bills, Brune's day planner… Guerrero had taught her how to read these kind of data, how to connect the various positions with each other and recognize incongruences.

Thinking of Guerrero made her look at the empty space where the white pear used to be. She had received an e-mail notification from the manufactory in Milano. The replacement was on its way.

Ilsa decided she didn't want to ponder why she hadn't ordered another white one, just like the destroyed had been. She didn't want to explore why it had felt wrong to her, kind of inappropriate, to order a white one again. Determined to get her mind off dangerous topics, she opened Brune's calendar and started skipping through it.

Now wait a minute...

… … …

Introducing Chance as a lawyer was easy. Finding a fitting role for Guerrero, however, had been a little more challenging. In the end they settled for human resources manager.

Not that far off the mark, actually.

Even Ralph Brune, Timothy Brune's brother, didn't question the new employees' identity. He shook sweaty hands first with Chance, then with Guerrero, mumbled something about "welcome to the family" and suddenly choked up.

"Everything okay, Ralph?" Tim Brune asked his brother.

The brother looked at him, eyes gleaming with tears, nodded and walked off. Guerrero and Chance exchanged frowns. Something was definitely wrong with him. Out here in the wilderness the ear pieces didn't work, otherwise they could have asked Ilsa to look into the brother's background first, but alas, judging from past experiences they'd soon find out anyway.

Their instructor told them that their first task would be crossing a steep valley with the help of nothing but three ropes. He also informed them that their second instructor would be waiting at the drop-off where he had already scouted out the terrain and set up the necessary equipment.

"Sounds like a good opportunity to make it look like an accident", Chance told Guerrero, muttering under his breath.

"Did we check the instructors' backgrounds?", Guerrero muttered back.

"Unobtrusive, but you know as well as I do…"

Timothy Brune was tense but keeping up appearances. He joked around with his employees, exchanged a few words with everyone… Ralph Brune, on the other hand, walked around like a zombie. He seemed to be totally caught up in his thoughts, stumbled every few feet over a tree root or a rock and if Chance hadn't caught him twice, he'd have a least sprained an ankle before reaching the drop-off.

At first the meeting point seemed deserted – the rope bridge was set up, but no second instructor in sight. Chance grabbed Brune by the shoulders and firmly pulled him between himself and Guerrero. Both men were highly alert now.

The first instructor pulled out his cell phone.

There – movement by the trees.

Judging from the uniform, it was the first instructor's colleague. "Sorry, call of nature!", he explained jovially while stepping out of the bushes. His face was hard to make out against the bright sunlight, but Guerrero and Chance recognized his features nevertheless.

Chicago.

The professional assassin they had held captive during Ames' diamond heist ordeal.

Talk about making it look like an accident.

Chicago, of course, recognized them, too.

Guerrero went for his gun.

Chance went for his gun.

Chicago went for his gun.

But before any of them could actually pull one, Ralph Brune dashed forward, yelled something along the lines of "I've changed my mind!" and pushed Chicago down the drop-off.


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"Change of plans", Chance told the assembled managers, looking into the abyss where Chicago was precariously dangling from a tree root. "We're not going to learn how to cross a steep valley with the help of nothing but three ropes today. Instead we're going to learn how to rescue someone who has fallen into a steep valley with the help of nothing but three ropes."

They all, including the instructor, just stared at him.

"Nothing better to strengthen team spirit than a life on the line", he explained, while down in the abyss Chicago was rolling his eyes. _These people again. _

While Chance organized the managers into groups and assigned them with tasks, Guerrero decided to have a little chat with Ralph Brune, who was still standing on the spot from where he had pushed Chicago down the drop-off. He was shaking all over and breathing in short, shallow gasps.

"Trust me dude, once Chance has hoisted our mutual friend back up here again, you won't want to be anywhere near any landscape feature that could serve as an excuse for a sudden … accident…." Guerrero reached out to grab Ralph Brune's arm and drag him away from the abyss, but Brune was faster. He dashed forward and hugged his brother, who had come up behind Guerrero, fiercely.

"I love you. You're my brother. I love you. I don't care that you wanted to kill me. I can't kill you."

Timothy Brune's mouth fell open. "What the hell are you talking about?"

But Ralph Brune didn't get a chance to answer. All of a sudden he went rigid, slumped forward against his brother and passed out.

"Next exercise in team building…", Chance announced as he helped Chicago to his feet, "…will be transporting an unconscious person back to the camp with the help of an improvised stretcher."

"Looks like our bosses are really taking this leading-by-example-thing seriously", one manager, only recently hired, said to another, who had spent most of his work life with the Brunes, as they went looking for branches they could use for the stretcher.

"They always do", the veteran manager told the rookie. "Last year Timothy Brune burnt his feet while firewalking."

_"Well"_, Chance thought, overhearing them, _"at least we have no nosy question-askers so far…"_

Speaking of question-askers… now that Ralph Brune was out cold, Guerrero had shifted his attention to Chicago. He was a bit bruised and mud-coated, but all in all he had survived the fall well.

"Hand it over", Guerrero said.

Wordlessly, Chicago turned, so that none of the managers or the instructor could see what he was fidgeting with, and handed his gun to Guerrero. Apparently he had no intention to resist – maybe his last experience with this team had something to do with it. He probably enjoyed breathing way too much to try anything.

"The knife, too." Although Chicago seemed compliant, Guerrero made a point of keeping the Brunes out of his direct reach. Equally careful not to let any of the managers see it, he accepted Chicago's combat knife and tucked it away.

"Care to shed some light on the matter?"

As it turned out, Chicago didn't know much. Ralph Brune had contacted him a couple of days ago – an assassin, hired by his brother, was after him."

"He had seen bank statements that proved his brother had withdrawn huge amounts of money. The money the assassin had been paid with… I took care of the hired gun. Afterwards Brune told me to apply the same… solution … to his brother", Chicago told them as they slowly made their way to the campsite where the managers' families waited.

"Why didn't he call the police?", Chance asked. Just like Guerrero he was making sure, too, that the two Brunes were out of Chicago's reach. They had seen him in action before. This was nobody to take chances with.

"This account the money was taken from… it belonged to the company's system of slush funds. Had he told the police, he'd been in trouble, too."

Ralph Brune was slowly blinking awake again. "I swear, I didn't hire anyone", Tim Brune told his brother. Then he insisted on helping to carry the stretcher till they had reached the families' camp.

A familiar figure greeted them from a shallow hill a couple of feet away from the first tents. The wind was playing with her dark, slightly curly hair and a figure hugging ensemble of waterproof pants and vest showed off her well defined curves. Trust Ilsa Pucci to go shopping and find elegant outdoor clothing.

Chance felt reminded of Dr. Shaw, who spent most of her life in such clothes. She had stayed behind in Syria to make sure the gold they had taken from the temple would be put to good use. He was well aware of the fact that she was where she was needed most and he was where he was needed most, but nevertheless, the memory of her soft touch left him with a longing to feel that warmth again that only another human being could provide.

He sighed. He could have had that with Ilsa…. But he had waited too long. Now there was his best friend in the picture…

Guerrero noticed the way Chance was looking at Ilsa and wondered if Chance was really so sure about the decision he had seemingly made by spending the night with the doctor and making no secret of it. Well, now was not the time to dwell on that. Judging from the way Ilsa was practically hopping up and down, eagerly awaiting their arrival, she had discovered something while checking "the usual stuff".

"Withdrawals from a secret Swiss bank account indicate that our client hired an assassin to kill his brother!", she blurted out as soon as she was within hearing range.

Chance stifled another sigh. She was so proud of having discovered something. He hated spoiling this for her.

"… but according to his calendar, he can't have made the withdrawals!", Ilsa finished her sentence. "So I dug further and I discovered the police report regarding Mrs. Brune's car. All traces indicate that no second car was involved, that the damage to it was inflicted by a baseball bat and that the whole "getting pushed into the Bay"-story was a lie. Police thinks it was done to deceive the insurance company, but I think Mrs. Brune wanted to divert suspicion from herself."

In the background Ames and Winston appeared with a handcuffed Mrs. Brune between them.

Timothy Brune couldn't believe it – first his brother, now his wife? He felt close to passing out, too. "Why, Amanda?"

She merely rolled her eyes.

"Who inherits your brother's money if he dies?", Winston asked.

Brune was too shocked to answer, so Winston continued after a short pause. "You do. And who inherits your money when you die? She does. Your wife wanted to have you killed once your brother was out of the way. Thus the multiple withdrawals from the account – she paid the killer in advance for two assassination. Nice plan. But she made it without your brother – when he hired another assassin to protect himself, things got a little bit out of hand…"

"Why?", Timothy Brune asked his wife again. "I thought we were happy."

She shook her mousy hair. "_You_ were happy. I was getting older. I wanted to _live_, Timothy."

Brune turned away from her and walked over to his brother who was still occupying the stretcher. "I'm so sorry", his brother said.

"You realize you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble with a little more trust in each other?", Winston finished his brief summary of events.

"Well roared, walrus", Guerrero said, glanced at Winston and then quickly looked away, as if it hadn't meant anything.

Winston and Ilsa, however, both nodded.

_Trust. If Guerrero said he had nothing to do with the police woman's disappearance, he hadn't. _

Somewhere in the back of Winston's mind, Leonard was snorting a triumphant _"See?"_


	35. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

They were welcomed back home by the news that a body had been found floating in the Bay – a woman, red haired, clothes pointing to Irish origin, police was still working on DNA identification (no fingerprints, thanks to the fish)…

The team, of course, didn't need DNA verification, it was quite obvious who had found an untimely, according to the police report, execution-style death and a temporary grave in the water. Compared to the aftermath of Peale's visit, they received this new development with calmness, bordering on resignation.

"They don't really have anything on you", Winston told Guerrero. "Except for suspicions, but with your reputation, that's pretty much par for the course. I've got a police buddy of mine on the lookout. He'll let me know, should the suspicions turn into something more." He did his best to ignore Leonard's voice in his head: _A buddy of yours on the lookout? You realize you're actively protecting him, don't you? Come on, humor me and try to explain that away…"_

"Oh, shut up!", Winston snarled and only then realized he had spoken aloud.

Thankfully, his angry reply had been low enough to be confused with a sharp hiss. In addition to that Ilsa decided to use this moment to complement Winston's statement, diverting attention from him: "My lawyers have compiled the papers that prove you were in Syria with us at the time of that police woman's death. Should any need arise…"

"It's probably just a coincidence that she was asking around about you and then killed", Chance added. "And should this turn out to be an attempt to frame you…"

"We'll help you hide the body!"

Everybody stared at Ames. Unlike Winston, she hadn't spoken quietly. Wide-eyed, she clasped her mouth with her hands. Oh heavens, she hadn't meant actually saying that!

"We'll help you sort the matter out", Ilsa corrected her in a very pointed tone.

Winston said something about food, real food, not take-out for a change, and everybody agreed with the suggestion, promptly leaving him alone in the kitchen area to peel the potatoes he needed for that "real food" all by himself. Ilsa was a bit torn, on the one hand she felt she should offer help, on the other hand peeling potatoes would ruin her fingernails… and of course there was a lot of paperwork that had piled up during their Syrian adventure…

In an attempt to calm her conscience, she indeed started working on the letters that had poured in while they had been away. One by one she dug through the pile of unanswered mail, sorted documents and filed them.

Things went surprisingly well. Usually doing paperwork at the office when everybody was around was difficult because Chance and Guerrero always seemed to think that sparring was done best when she was sitting at her desk, trying to concentrate. If not that, Winston and Guerrero got into one of their ridiculous arguments or Ames worked out to some fitness video that somehow had to be displayed on the screen in the conference room. Today, silence reigned.

It should have made her suspicious.

Among the letters, Ilsa found a parcel. The new glass pear from Milano had arrived. She was thoughtfully weighing the small packet in her hand when suddenly Chance stuck his head in the room. "Come on, time to go."

"Go where?" He was still wearing hiking clothes, but not the same he had worn during the trip with the Brunes. Ilsa knew he had taken a shower to avoid helping Winston with the potatoes, but why had he changed into hiking clothes again?

Chance smiled and Ilsa recognized the familiar gleam of mischief in his eyes. Uh-oh, what was he up to?

"You want to be part of the team, Ilsa, don't you?"

She nodded, totally clueless at what he was aiming at.

"But when Brune informed you about the survival trip, you bailed out."

"But…", she started to protest.

Chance silenced her with his raised index finger and a facial expression bordering somewhere between seriousness and teasing. "That's a no go, Ilsa. Either you are a part of our group or you aren't there's no exemption clause when it comes to worms."

Ilsa's stomach clamped. Oh no. What was Winston really preparing in the kitchen?

To her short-lived relief, Chance told her to get her coat, they'd go on a trip. Absent-mindedly, she put the parcel with the pear in her purse.

A trip… "Trip" as in camping trip?

Of course Chance didn't tell her, but they drove for several hours and when they finally arrived it was at some god-forsaken spot in the middle of nowhere aka in the heart of nature. Night had already fallen and the first thing she saw was a blazing campfire. Guess what it illuminated? A tent of course. And the faces of Winston, Ames, Guerrero, gathered around the fire. Guerrero was holding some sort of metal skewer, apparently roasting something over the fire.

Oh great. So water vole it would be then.

They sat her down by the fire which, she had to admit, provided quite comfortable warmth. Guerrero cut a piece of crusted meat from the small chunk he had been turning in the flames. Thankfully it wasn't recognizable as a rodent anymore, they had removed head, tail, legs and everything else.

For a short moment Ilsa considered going for the "I'm vegetarian" exit strategy, but she almost immediately knew she just couldn't. This was about being a part of the team. She had to.

Taking a deep breath and then holding it, she took the piece of meat Guerrero was offering her, stuffed it in her mouth, barely chewed it and swallowed it as fast as possible, expecting the worst.

It didn't taste badly.

"How do you like your beef, Ilsa?", Chance smiled.

"Beef? Really? Just beef?"

They all laughed, and from then on it was a peaceful evening. They were insistent, however, that she spent the night in the tent she had seen at her arrival. She wouldn't be alone, they set up their own tents all around, but she had to sleep in the tent. No wriggling out.

Well, the Scotch they consumed while sitting around the fire, quite literally helped Ilsa to warm up to the idea and when she finally climbed into her sleeping bag, it didn't seem to be so bad after all. She was just about snuffing out her lantern when she remembered the parcel with the pear she had carried with her all the way from San Francisco. Maybe it was the Scotch, making her decisions a bit irrational, but she got up again to get it.

When she opened the parcel, the pear was not black, it was gray. The most beautiful gray Ilsa had ever seen – dozens of different shades of gray, flowing into one another… even in the dim lantern light she felt reminded of swirling ocean waves, crashing against a shore.

The pear was accompanied by a note. _The light switch for the stairs is on the left_, it said in Guerrero's thin, precise handwriting.


	36. Romeo and Juliet

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ Romeo and Juliet ~**_

Philippa dropped Ash off at the warehouse on Saturday morning under the condition that he'd do his homework before ordering in food of dubious nutritional value, playing spurious card games with his dad, sparring with his grandfather "or whatever other activity you have in mind that undermines thirteen years of careful motherly upbringing", she finished her list grumpily but smiling.

Ash knew better than testing his mother's tolerance regarding homework and as far as he had gathered his father wasn't willing to budge on that point either. So he disappeared into the room Chance had given him for his birthday – his own room, right next to his Dad's living-room, with furniture of his choice and decorated the way he wanted it. After living in temporary homes for his whole life suddenly having two rooms of his own, one at his mother's house and one here, was like a quantum leap in luxury. He still couldn't quite believe how much his life had changed in so few months.

Looking around the room his father and his friends had so carefully built, Ash wondered if he should really go through with what he was planning. What if he disappointed him? There was no telling what he would say, how he would react. They just didn't know each other long enough for any kind of at least half-way educated guess.

"Well then I guess I just have to do it and find out", Ash finally decided and closed his exercise book determinedly. His homework was finished and it was time to start with stage one of his plan.

The thought of disappointing his father put a knot in his stomach. On the other hand, this was important to him. And hadn't his grandfather only last week told him that knowing what you want makes you a man? "_Getting_ what you want is easy", he had said. "_Knowing_ what you want is the hard part. Once you know what you want, you can figure out how to get there and if it's important enough to you, you will find a way, no matter how difficult it looks."

Well, Ash was pretty sure he had found a way… it was a pretty crazy-ass plan, but with a little luck it could work. If he only knew that his father would back him…

Only one way to find out.

Sighing, he made his way downstairs to the kitchen area where Chance was reading the newspaper. He knew something was off the second his son walked in. There was something about the look on his face… "Homework finished?", he asked.

Ash nodded and sat down at the table, eyeing his father. Chance slightly tilted his head and smiled. "Spit it out."

"Mom said you're some kind of bodyguard."

Uh-oh, they'd just stepped onto very thin ice.

Chance nodded slowly.

"She said you've got a very unique method to protect your clients."

Chance nodded again, not sure where this was heading.

"Explain."

Harmless request, but Chance's mind was racing. He had discussed this with Philippa for hours: How much could they tell the boy without him starting to ask questions? What information would raise suspicions and what was safe?

"I know so little about you", Ash added, blue eyes looking up at him.

Chance tried to ignore the pang of guilt he felt, after all it wasn't his fault he hadn't known about Ash's existence for so long, but it didn't work. He felt sorry for his son who just wanted to know more about his father.

"I blend into the client's normal environment so that the threat doesn't know he's being protected", he reluctantly replied. "When the threat tries to attack, I step in and … hand him over to the police."

"How do you do that?"

Oh great, what should he say now? That he used guns, knives, explosives, drugs, even a grenade launcher every now and then? "Do what?", Chance asked back, stalling.

"Blending in."

Big sigh of relief. Describing how to blend in was a safe topic, it didn't require any mention of weapons or illegal substances. "Don't imitate who you want to be, be who you want to be", Chance began. "If you're pretending to be a banker, react to things like a banker would, not like you would…"

Guerrero came walking in and raised his eyebrows, overhearing Chance's explanation, but didn't say anything. Instead he opened the fridge and rummaged around till he had found Winston's egg salad. It contained way too much cholesterol for him anyway.

The telephone rang and Chance answered it. "Harry…" He didn't get any further since Harry broke out into a hectic and confusing recount of his latest mess.

"Harry, if you killed your client, I'm sure you didn't do it on purpose…", Chance finally managed to chime in.

More rambling from Harry, then Chance again: "See, there's still hope. As long as there are no bones… You know how good Guerrero is at tracking people. He'll…"

Guerrero shot Chance a warning look.

"_We_'ll", Chance corrected himself, "come over as soon as possible." He hung up the phone and turned to his son.

"No problem", Ash said before Chance could apologize, "Go ahead, I'm good. I'll ask Ames if she's got time for a game or something." And off he went.

Guerrero noted that the boy left the kitchen a little too quickly, but Chance's summary of Harry's catastrophe of the week soon required all his attention. How in the world were they supposed to get him out of that shitstorm?

Chance had noticed, too, that Ash was a little too fast in turning to Ames for company, especially since he hadn't yet spent much time with her, but just like with Guerrero, the Harry issue soon demanded all his focus. Oh boy, he had really gotten himself into something this time.

And considering this was _Harry_ they were talking about, this was saying something.


	37. Chapter 37

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"I was hired to find out if she was in some kind of trouble", Harry explained, wiping sweat beads off his forehead. "Her father wanted to know if she was getting mobbed at school or taking drugs or something. Easy gig, you know? Peace of cake for a man of my abilities." He wiped his forehead again.

"Dude, when the boss of one of the two most powerful criminal organizations of the westcoast hires you, there's nothing harmless about it."

"I figured she was only a girl, sixteen, how much trouble could she cause...?" Harry buried his face in his hands.

"Judging from the fact that you had Nelly hide at the farm, a lot. Now tell us what happened, Harry." Chance poured his shaking friend a stiff drink. Italian gangland boss Luciano Galotti, archenemy of Tony Bevilacqua, was involved in this. Trust Harry to attract the wrath of the worst people available.

"Galotti had noticed that his daughter was losing weight, her marks were suddenly dropping, all in all she seemed absent-minded and worn down by something. So I got hired to find out what was wrong with her and I don't know how..."

Winston and Guerrero both rolled their eyes more or less openly. This was Harry. The possibilities of how things could go wrong were potentially endless.

"...I don't know how", Harry repeated, "but she figured out I was following her and set a trap for me."

"She set a trap for you?" Winston shook his head. "A sixteen year old girl?"

"Kids can be quite cunning." Harry was indignant. "And she's Luciano Galotti's daughter after all." He paused. "It was a really mean trap."

"What happened, Harry?" Guerrero was losing his patience fast.

"She made me... made me..." Harry's voice trailed off, the rest of the sentence became an incoherent jumble.

"We can't hear you, Harry..." Winston was getting impatient, too.

"It's okay, Harry, spit it out, nobody is going to judge you here." Chance gave his friends a pointed look of the warning kind. This was serious. Next to Tony Bevilacqua, Luciano Galotti was the worst man to piss off this side of the continent.

"She made me talk", Harry confessed, hanging his head in shame. "Made me spill the beans about her father hiring me."

"A sixteen year old girl made you talk? How in the world...?" Another strict glance from Chance silenced Winston, but Guerrero's professional interest had been woken.

"What did she use? Drugs or devices?"

"Guerrero..." Chance was getting tired of this. He really wanted to help Harry, but he was losing precious time with Ash over this. In hindsight, his son's questions regarding his job and the methods he was using seemed more than a bit odd. Had Joubert hinted at something? They needed to talk about this again.

"Extension studies, dude. You can never know enough about other people's weaknesses."

Chance urged Harry with a nod to continue.

"So I told you what her father had hired me for. She was shocked. Started paving the room for ages, even went outside for a while, said she needed a breath of fresh air..."

From the look on Harry's face they could tell the worst was yet to come.

"When she came back, she said she was seeing a boy her father would never approve of. She said him hiring me proved to her that he would never let her make her own choices, he would control her and not let her be happy."

"The boy have a name?" Guerrero voiced the all important question.

"Adriano Bevilacqua", Harry said flatly.

Tony Bevilacqua's grandson. Dammit.

"But that's not all..."

"Harry, what could possibly be worse than getting involved into an issue of that kind between teenagers of rivaling families?" Chance poured himself a stiff drink.

"Sandrina, Galotti's daughter, told me that she and Adriano woud never be allowed to live in peace together and thus they're now going to the only place where they can be together forever...after that she left. I tried locating her or Adriano, but both have disappeared...found a note in Sandrina's room...hid it from her father." He showed the note to the others. It was a suicide note.

A long silence followed. Two young lives, lost to idiotic tragedy... Finally Winston spoke up: "You know, from Galotti's point of view you could be blamed for that...you spilt the beans...and I guess Bevilacqua wouldn't argue that point."

"Tell me you can help me." Harry was practically pleading.

"I can make it quick and painless...", Guerrero offered.

Chance, who was in the process of rereading the note, shook his head.

"Yeah, not helpful, I know", Guerrero said. This was a damn dire situation.

Chance shook his head again. "That's not what I meant", he said.


	38. Chapter 38

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"Any progress?", Chance asked Guerrero as he came into the kitchen to help himself to some food.

"Looks like you were right", he replied between two bites into an apple.

"Nelly?"

"Safe at the farm. I've got one of my guys keeping an eye on her."

"Harry?"

"Sleeping on the couch."

Chance looked up from his newspaper and raised a questioning eyebrow at his friend.

"He was getting on my nerves and he needed a bit of rest anyway."

"Chance! You've got visitors!", Winston yelled from his desk and a short time later the elevator signaled.

"Your son has something to tell you." Philippa steered Ash into the kitchen and sat him down in the chair in front of Chance.

Now, whenever "Philippa's boy" suddenly became "Chance's son", the young man had gotten himself into deep trouble. Considering that last time Philippa had brought him over for some fatherly heart-to-heart talk the Old Man had been involved, Chance braced himself for pretty bad news. From what he had learned about his son so far, Ash didn't tend to do things by half.

"Our year is performing Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet for the parents at the school's pre-Christmas party", Ash said, shifting uneasily. "I'm playing one of the lead characters."

"Hey, that's good news!" Chance broke into a smile and patted his son's shoulder.

"Romeo is a very demanding role", Guerrero added approvingly, rummaging through the fridge for more fruit. "Lots of text and some complicated shifts of emotion. It's an honor to be chosen for that."

"He's not playing Romeo", Philippa chimed in. She didn't sound approving at all.

"Well, what other lead character is there in…" Chance's eyes grew wide as realization dawned on him. "Oh…"

It didn't happen very often that Chance was completely surprised by something and needed a moment to figure out what to say next. This time he was.

Ash watched his father's reaction anxiously.

"You're playing… _Juliet_?" Chance took a deep breath. He could see his son studying him. This was a make-or-break situation. If he reacted wrongly this could cause lasting damage. Hey, he had seen Billy Elliot_. _"Didn't they have any girls who wanted that part?", he finally asked, hoping it was a neutral enough question.

"He outcompeted six girls during casting!" Philippa's voice climbed an octave and became significantly louder. "He drove them all from the field! SIX GIRLS! His teacher kept rambling on about how believable he came across in the scene with the Nurse! Did someone around here teach my son how to behave like a girl?"

Ames, who had been in the process of entering the kitchen to find out what all the ruckus was about, turned on her heels and headed straight out of the line of fire.

"In Elizabethan theater it was very common that boys played female roles. If you wanted to become an actor you went into an apprenticeship at the age of ten and the first roles apprentices got were female roles", Ash defended himself.

"I've got news for you, we're living in the 21st century!", Philippa snarled back.

"What does his teacher…?", Chance began.

"She's overjoyed that a young man has the guts to openly explore his feminine side!" She practically spat the sentence.

"Welcome to San Francisco", Guerrero murmured, finishing off the banana he had been munching on.

"What about your mates, aren't they… making fun of you?", Chance asked his son cautiously.

"This is important to me." Ash's jaw was set and he was looking his father straight in the eyes. Familiar expression. Chance looked like that when he was serious about something.

"Well, if you really want it…"Again, Chance got no opportunity to finish the sentence.

"If he really _wants_ it? What kind of reaction is that? And you're calling yourself a father?" Whoa, Philippa was more than a little upset about the issue and obviously hell-bent on venting her frustration at someone.

"Ash, what about a sparring session?", Guerrero asked. In his opinion, children shouldn't witness their parents fight.

Grateful, Ash hurried out of the kitchen.

The second the boy was out of the room, Philippa practically exploded: "How dare you support this! Something like that can completely ruin his reputation! Do you want him to get bullied?"

In his adult life, Chance had had his fair share of angry women in his face. Experience had taught him to sit it out and wait till the need for oxygen would inevitably bring the attack to a halt.

Philippa lasted long. But even she needed to breathe eventually.

"You're so upset because he's playing a Juliet, aren't you?" Chance asked when she finally had to inhale.

His words couldn't have had more impact. She slumped down in the chair in front of him and practically broke down, from angry to devastated in a split second.

"He's thirteen now, Chance. How much longer till he starts asking questions? How much longer till he finds out his whole life has been nothing but smoke and mirrors?" Tears were running down her face now. "How much longer till he finds out who I really am?"

He let her cry for a while. When her sobs finally died down, he reached out, took her hand and lightly squeezed it. It was the first time he had touched her since he had cut her ties and set her free.

"I'm scared, too", he told her.

… … …

Guerrero had never sparred with Ash before, that was Joubert's domain. Chance didn't do it either. Although he had never said so, Guerrero guessed he was afraid of hurting him.

Just like he was now.

Ash looked shockingly vulnerable with his shirt off, wearing nothing but drawstring pants. A skinny boy, lanky... it was damn difficult not to call him Junior. Chance had been only three years older when Joubert had taken him in.

They started with some easy taekwondo moves, but it soon showed that the Old Man's training was effective: Ash didn't have the bulk to seriously endanger Guerrero's natural advantage, but he was fast and focused. Guerrero upped the pace and the sequences became more complicated. Baptiste sure had his hands in the boy's training, too.

All of a sudden, Ash closed the distance between them, faked a lead leg kick to Guerrero's middle and almost instantly delivered a spinning hook kick to his head.

Classic Baptiste style.

Guerrero, however, knew a couple of dirty tricks of his own. He grabbed Ash's leg in mid-air, twisted it around and a second later he had pinned the boy to the ground. Not hurting him, but applying enough pressure to let him know he could take him down a lot harder if he wanted to.

"Nice try, dude", he told him calmly. "But whatever you do, think it through completely before you start it. Once you've set the wheels in motion, you've got to face the consequences."

For a moment nothing could be heard but Ash's ragged breathing.

"I got the message", he finally replied and Guerrero let him get up.

For a moment they just looked at each other and again Guerrero fought the urge to call the boy Junior. Then Ash broke the silence.

"Show me how you did that."


	39. Chapter 39

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

The monitor showed a gray figure against the glistening blackness of roof tiles wet from the rain. It slightly resembled a big ape.

A clumsy big ape.

"There might be some subtle strategic advantage to this approach that I'm missing", Winston mused as he watched Harry precariously climbing down the cheap hotel's rooftop, "but wouldn't it be easier if he just knocked on their door?"

"Harry's case, Harry's plan." Chance's voice via earpiece.

Guerrero, who was sitting with Winston in the van, offered him a couple of salted cashew nuts.

"Is that what you're going to tell Nelly when her husband ends up as an ugly spot of bloody sludge on the concrete?" Winston eyed the cashew nuts cautiously. Guerrero being generous? There surely was something off with them. He refused. Guerrero shrugged and polished off half a dozen at once.

"He won't." Chance's voice was a little strained since he was counterbalancing Harry's weight with the help of the safety rope.

"If I knock on their door, they might try to get away over the balcony!" Harry's voice via earpiece. He was puffing like a grampus. "What if they fall to death? No, thank you, I'm not going to mess this up any further – I'm going to block this way of escape. Just a few more steps and I'll be aaaaaahhh…."

The monitor showed Harry slipping on the wet surface, sliding downwards at hair-raising speed, kicking tiles loose all along the way and ending up dangling from the eavestrough.

"Unless they interpret all this ruckus as an exceptionally fat squirrel learning tap dance on the roof above their heads, don't you think all this noise might tip them off?"

"No need to worry." Guerrero showed Winston a key.

"You locked them in the room?"

"Balcony's door is blocked, too. Can only be opened from the outside." Guerrero ate some more cashew nuts.

"I can do it Chance, I can do it. Don't bother. I just need the right momentum."

The monitor showed Harry swinging back and forth, apparently trying to hoist himself upwards onto the roof again. Through the microphone they could hear the eavestrough screeching dangerously. Chance, however, was in position by the chimney, ready to prevent Harry from falling, should the need arise, but apparently willing to patiently wait out his friend's attempt to sort out his mess alone.

Judging from the snail pace with which Harry was regaining his balance, they were in for a long night.

Winston switched channels so that Harry wouldn't be able to hear the following conversation. "So, tell us, what do you think about your son's venture into the performing arts?"

"I'd be a lot more concerned if he had wanted to play Tybalt", Chance replied. In the background they could hear the eavestrough screech even louder, along with a couple of cries from Harry: "I'm doing fine! I'm doing fine!".

"And now for those whose wife didn't succeed in forcing them to sit through the whole damn Leonardo DiCaprio movie."

"Tybalt, dude. Juliet's cocky cousin. Talented, but way too impulsive. Quick to draw his sword when he feels somebody insulted him. Good fighter, but gets carried away easily." Guerrero's hand dug into the cashew nuts again. "Seriously, you've got to catch up on your reading."

"Still don't get it. Why should the role of a talented swordfighter be worse than the role of Juliet?"

Guerrero knew, but instead of explaining he reached for his coke and took a sip. Tybalt…

He could see Chance, who had a tendency to perceive himself in the worst light possible, likening his younger self to that character. To be completely honest, he wasn't that far off the mark. He had been a very angry young man in his early years with Joubert's organization. Joubert had used that anger to turn the boy into a killer. And yes, Guerrero had helped.

Winston mumbled something about taking a leak and left Guerrero alone in the van. Guerrero waited till he was out of earshot and the van's door firmly closed behind Winston before he spoke: "Hate to tell you, bro, but no matter how hard you try, in the end it's Ash's decision, not yours. He decides which way he'll go."

"I won't let him go my way, Guerrero. I won't."

At this very moment the eavestrough finally gave in and slowly sagged downwards…transporting Harry, who was still dangling from it, straight onto the very balcony he had been aiming for to reach the whole time.

"Did you see that? Did you see that!" Winston came stomping back into the van. "Again he slid ass first out of danger! Unbelievable!"

Waving friendly, Harry tried to calm down Sandrina Galotti and Adriano Bevilacqua who were frantically trying to get out of the hotel room. By the time they had managed to pick the room's doorlock, Winston and Guerrero were already waiting on the other side. Chance, in the meantime, joined Harry on the balcony and helped him open that door.

"Now, using me to stage your death so you could live together happily ever after, that was really not nice", Harry said accusingly as he finally managed to step into the room. "Had your father found out and believed your little deceit, he'd have killed me."

Silently Harry thanked Ames for coming up with a brilliant lie to believably explain Sandrina's and Adriano's absence for a short while. She had bought him much needed time. Maybe her way of apologizing for setting up the date in that sports bar with him and then not going through with it… Harry made a mental note to let her know that he had forgiven her. It was her loss, after all.

Sandrina, sitting on the bed next to her boyfriend, threw him a dark look. "This was our only chance to get away together. Now we really have to kill ourselves cause there's no chance in hell my dad's ever gonna let me out of his sight again."

"Same with me", Adriano agreed. "My grandfather will never accept our love. Death is our only option to be together."

"No, it's not", Chance all but snarled. "You're both being ridiculous! Even thinking about throwing your lives away like that! Nobody deserves to die and taking your own life is even worse than killing someone else."

Winston and Guerrero exchanged brief glances. Good to hear.

"We'll figure something out", Chance told the teenagers.

Sandrina snorted. "And what would that be?"

Good question. So far all of Chance's focus had been on finding the two and making sure Harry would remain in the land of the living.

"Well, _I_'ve got an idea…"

Everybody turned and looked at Harry in various degrees of skepticism.


	40. Chapter 40

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

When they came back to the warehouse with Harry, Sandrina and Adriano in tow, they were greeted by an … ah, well … _interesting_ sight right in the middle of the lobby.

"The teacher asked the parents to provide their kids' costumes. Ilsa stepped in and offered to donate the required costumes to the school. She ordered them at some British company and had them flown in with the jet", Ames explained.

"I just love Elizabethan theater. It's such a fascinating period and Romeo and Juliet is a true masterpiece of English literature." Ilsa took Ash by the shoulders and turned him so that Chance could see his son properly. He was wearing a classic Elizabethan Shakespeare costume in dark red velvet with white puffy sleeves and embroidered apron. Padding on the shoulders and hips gave the impression of a small waist. A complicatedly braided blond wig that included two long plaits was topping the whole thing off.

Chance froze and stared at him.

"Why are you wearing a dress?", Sandrina asked, all but wrinkling her nose.

"I'm playing Juliet", Ash replied, totally unabashedly, and whirled around a bit, so that the dress and apron started flowing.

"Why?" Adriano asked. The disdain and confusion in his words were hard to miss.

"It's the more challenging role." Ash stopped turning and smiled at his father, who still hadn't said a word. "And I get to wear the nicer costume."

Winston slightly tilted his head. He recognized the familiar spark in Ash's eyes. That was mischief shimmering through! Chance looked exactly like that when he was having fun at somebody's expense. What the hell was the boy up to?

When he saw the expression on Chance's face, however, Ash froze and the gleam in his eyes vanished immediately. Wasn't this okay after all?

Ilsa noticed Chance's oddly rigid posture, too. "Chance, everything okay?"

"Um, Ilsa, since Romeo and Juliet is set in Italy, it's safe to say she's Italian, wouldn't a brunette or black wig be better?" Guerrero, unusually tactful.

"Yes, I know, but the blond wig matches Ash's eyes so perf…" Ilsa broke off in mid-sentence when it dawned on her what she had done – Ash, lanky as he was, his face still childlike round and soft in places, the onslaught of hormones that would make it more angular shaped, more male, hadn't set in yet… dressed up like this, he indeed looked like a girl … and not just any girl … with the blond wig he must look like a younger version of his mother, like _Chance's_ Juliet.

Oh, bloody hell.

Chance felt like someone had punched him in the gut. He had, of course, noticed similarities between Juliet and Ash. The way he laughed, that was Juliet's laughter, and the way he looked at things that intrigued him – that slight squinting of the eyes, that was Juliet, too. But this… his mind added a few details here and there, made the person in front of him a little taller, added a few years…

It was as if she was standing in front of him, risen from the grave, after all those years.

The ghost's message was loud and clear: _No matter how hard you try, what you did in your past will never be forgotten. And one day it will come catching up with you. _

"Dad?", Ash asked, now visibly insecure.

"Nice dress, dude", Guerrero replied quickly. "But a dark wig would be better."

Ash wasn't to be distracted that easily. "Dad?" His voice was slightly shaking. Suddenly he wasn't so sure about his plan at all.

"You look very believable", Chance finally managed to croak out. "Just change the wig."

Ash nodded, halfway reassured again, and disappeared upstairs to change back into his normal clothes.

Ilsa, however, was close to tears. She could see what effect her actions had on Chance and felt terribly sorry. Winston decided it was high time to interfere.

"Harry has got an idea how to fix the situation between Sandrina's and Adriano's families. You've got a vital role in that plan. Interested?"

Now _that_ quickly brought her back to the problems at hand. Harry, having a plan? She threw Guerrero a highly alarmed look.

Guerrero could have made a soothing gesture, something subtle, a wave of his hand maybe...

...but that would have been significantly less fun. "How much do you know about parachuting, Ilsa?", he asked, evil smile on his lips.

Chance saw Ilsa visibly pale and couldn't help but feel better. There's nothing like a stiff British billionaire desperately fighting to keep up appearances. They should really try parachuting sometime in the near future. A tandem jump… they could sell it to her as a team building exercise… after what she had said about team building in connection with the Brune case she could hardly say no…

His mood even improved in the conference room as he watched Ilsa while listening to Harry's plan: Her initial concern for her well-being (indicated by her unusually pale skin) quickly made way first to incredulity (indicated by eyes flying wide open) and then to outright resistance (indicated by cute red spots on her cheeks).

"You don't seriously want me to conduct a presentation in which I explain to Luciano Galotti and Tony Bevilacqua how their ILLEGAL, FELONIOUS AND UNLAWFUL businesses would profit from a relationship between their offsprings? You don't really want me to point out to them how a combination of their activities would provide them with huge financial gain?"

"Well, the position you had with the Marshall Pucci foundation makes you an international expert regarding business cooperation and joint ventures…" Chance was enjoying himself now. The ghost of Juliet had disappeared into the gray realms where it had come from. The warning she represented was a tomorrow problem. Whatever was going to happen, there was no use worrying about it now. Not when there was an Ilsa Pucci around to make fun of.

"I'm not going to support two of the worst criminal organizations of the west coast with my expertise!"

"Maybe it's time to introduce the second part of the plan to Ilsa", Winston chimed in.

"There's a second part?", Ilsa asked warily.

_"There's a second part?"_, Harry asked, totally surprised.

"Just a few amendments, Harry." Winston reached out and patted his hand in an overly reassuring gesture. "No spectacular changes. It's still your plan."

Ilsa saw Guerrero break into a grin and shuddered.


	41. Chapter 41

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"So, in summary, if you combine your core competencies you two will not only maintain your respective edge in the marketplace, together you'll establish a permanent market leading position." Ilsa took a deep breath and showed Galotti and Bevilacqua yet another circle diagram.

"All you need to do is update your go-to-market strategy a little. A joint venture between your organizations could be the turnkey solution to some of your problems not only on the granular level but also in connection with some really critical challenges you might have to face in the future." Ilsa once again took a deep breath, produced a bar chart and skipped through her notes. "All it takes are some minor adjustments regarding expectation management and traction…"

"Sounds good", Tony Bevilacqua nodded.

Luciano Galotti indicated his assent with a subtle gesture, too. They were all sitting around a huge wooden oak table in one of San Francisco's most expensive hotels. Neutral ground. Nevertheless bodyguards from both organizations eyed each other warily.

A highly volatile situation. One spark and the whole meeting could explode like a room filled with gas. They had told Harry in no uncertain terms to, FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE, keep his mouth shut. So far he had followed that instruction. Well, probably Guerrero having shown him the sharp knives that were hidden in his belt was helping a bit…

"So", Galotti spoke up. "I guess it's a bit too much of a short notice to set a date prior Christmas?"

Bevilacqua shrugged his shoulders: "Probably. With the guest list and all… We should contemplate a date in January, early February at the latest."

"First week of February would be perfect – I've got some Russian…business partners… coming in. We could invite them. Would be a good opportunity to present our combined strategies." Smiling for the first time that afternoon, Galotti looked up from his Blackberry.

"Erm, excuse me?" Sandrina raised her hand as if in school. "What "date" are you talking about?"

"Well your wedding date of course, darling", her father told her.

Sandrina almost fell off her chair. And so did Adriano.

"Wedding?", they burst out, almost in unison.

"Well, what did you think? That we, mortal enemies that we are, go into business with each other, based on nothing but your assurance that you'll love each other forever?" Galotti questioningly arched his eyebrows at his daughter.

"I'm sorry, son, but I need something a little more concrete before I take steps that will forever change my business practices", Bevilacqua told his grandson.

"But I'm only sixteen!" Sandrina's face was changing colors, from hectic red to shocked white.

"Well, we will need to make an appointment with a counselor, appear before a superior court judge, show certified copies of your birth certificates and your mother and I will have to appear with you when you apply for the marriage license, but all in all your age shouldn't pose too much of a problem", Galotti replied calmly. "The lawyers will be delighted to be doing some honest work for a change."

"You cannot… you cannot…" Adriano was so shocked, he was unable to finish the sentence.

His future wife was shocked, too, but in contrast to her husband-to-be, it brought out her belligerent side: "You cannot force us into a wedding!"

"So you were willing to commit suicide to be with each other forever, but you're saying no to marriage?", Chance asked, mock confusion in his voice.

"Well, I can relate to that…", Winston chimed in.

"Fact is, darling, you're asking me to take you seriously", Galotti said, voice very matter-of-factly. "Now I'm asking you to do the same in return. My business is the foundation of the way we live, you live, our family lives. By forming a bond with a member of a hostile family you're endangering that foundation. There is only one way to keep it stable and that is to do form that bond properly."

"You want this, Adriano? Then be a man and walk the talk." Bevilacqua leaned back in his chair and looked his grandson straight in the eyes. "Your grandmother's diamond ring would make a perfect engagement ring. Okay with you, Luciano?"

Galotti nodded in assent. "My wife still has her handmade satin wedding gown, imported from Italy, would it be alright with you if Sandrina got married in that one? Or do you insist on having a new one made for your granddaughter-in-law?"

"With Italian embroidery, I assume?" Bevilacqua directed one of his bodyguards to pour him and Galotti a generous amount of Whiskey. "Love that old-fashioned style. Where should the wedding take place? It'll be a Catholic mass, of course."

"We renovated a Catholic church in the Mission district."

"I think I could provide a bishop to officiate."

"We haven't talked about the subject of grandkids yet."

"Great-grandkids, in my case... but that should wait till they've finished school."

"Agreed, kids need educated parents."

"I want at least four."

"It's a tradition in our family that the first boy is always called Giovanni."

"Not a bad name..."

"ENOUGH!" Sandrina jumped up so abruptly, she shoved her chair backwards and it fell crashing to the floor. "If you force me to get married, I'll jump off Golden Gate Bridge!"

"What, you don't love me enough to marry me?" Adriano looked really crestfallen.

"Have you lost your mind?", she was shouting at him now.

"Wait a minute… "

"Sure as hell I'm not going to spend the rest of my life married to you. Do you know how much you snore at night? And that munching noise you make when eating something! NO WAY!" She stormed out of the room, followed suit by Adriano.

Outside they could hear them continue their argument. I didn't sound good, regarding the future of their relationship.

"Thank God, I thought she was never gonna object." Bevilacqua let out a huge sigh of relief.

"Me neither", Galotti agreed. The men chinked their glasses.

"I have to say, nice plan, Chance", Bevilacqua addressed Chance after taking a large sip.

"It was all Harry's idea. Thank him", Chance replied, grinning.

Harry looked at the two men who, not too long ago, had been plotting ways of killing him as slowly as possible, and beamed while outside Sandrina Galotti told Adriano Bevilacqua that she never wanted to see his ugly face again.

"Gotta love those happy ends…", Winston muttered.


	42. Chapter 42

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Veniceit provided some very important thoughts regarding Ash's acting role. Thank you! The "smirk" comment was originally developed by tree979 in her drastic but great one-shot "Facing the consequences". **_

Ilsa's generous donation of the costumes earned the team seats in the front row. Two seats right next to them, however, remained empty. Only after the principal's speech was over and the lights were turned off so that the play could begin, two shadowy figures sneaked in and occupied them.

"_Juliet_", the Old Man scoffed as he slumped into the seat next to Chance, crossed his arms and darkly stared at the slowly rising curtain.

Chance couldn't resist: "It's the more challenging role…"

"Shut up or I'll shoot that smirk off your face."

All in all it wasn't a bad performance. Not exactly the Royal Shakespeare Company, but definitely an entertaining afternoon – Mercutio accidentally knocked down part of a palace wall, Lady Capulet kept falling over her dress and Benvolio creatively changed his text here and there:

_Madam, an hour before the warship son_

_Peed before the golden window of the east…_

Probably made more sense to him than the original Shakespearian version...

The teacher had solved the "two pilgrims"-scene during the celebration at the Capulet's house quite tactfully, replacing the original lip kisses with kisses on the hand. Nevertheless a low, deep-throated growl could be heard from Chance's right side as Ash up on the stage shyly turned away from Romeo's advances, only to walk back to him after a couple of swaying steps, fluttering his eyelashes while virtuously looking at the ground.

_"Juliet…"_ Joubert hissed.

"He's quite good at pretending to be somebody else", Baptiste remarked, knowing full well that this particular observation would significantly dampen Chance's mood.

Chance tried to block Baptiste's comment out, but of course he had hit right on the mark. Ash as Juliet was coming across pretty believable. A little more fine tuning and blending in somewhere or pretending to be someone else to get access to something wouldn't pose much of a problem for him… The thought caused a knot in Chance's stomach.

The Old Man, on the other hand, allowed himself a satisfied grin.

After the play was over, the assembled friends and family of the participants slowly made their way to the corridor where the kids would emerge from the backstage area.

"Hey, are you the father of the boy who played the Juliet?", a balding, middle-aged man addressed Chance, who stopped and turned around.

Together with Joubert, Baptiste, Guerrero, Winston, Ames, Ilsa and Philippa.

Whatever ironic comment that man had in mind, it died on his lips as he realized that Ash's family apparently consisted not merely of this blond fella who, up-close, looked a lot bigger than from the fourth row in the back, but actually of a whole collection of impressive individuals, each one menacing-looking in his own special way. Even the women.

"Brilliant performance", he stuttered and scuttled away quickly.

"Dad!" Ash came hurrying out of the backstage area, carrying a large hold-all. "How did you like it?" They could see he was holding his breath and his eyes were wandering nervously from Chance to Joubert and back.

"I'm proud of you", Chance said and hugged his son.

"Well done", the Old Man growled and patted his back.

"And what about your plain old mom, doesn't she get a hug from the next rising star of the stage?", Philippa asked in mock indignation. Ash fell into her arms and embraced her tightly.

At this very moment, they could hear someone else call: "Ash, Ash!"

A girl rounded the corner, about his age. She was blond, quite nicely clad, seemed to know a thing or two about make-up … probably a cheerleader, definitely cute. As with all popular girls in that age, she didn't come alone but with an entourage of other girls buzzing around her. Her arm was in a sling, as if she had recently been in an accident.

"Hey, Debbie." Ash quickly let go of his mother and turned around to face the small group.

Debbie broke loose from the others and stepped right in front of him. "I can't believe you did that. Oh. My. Gosh. You said you'd make sure Tory Amstead wouldn't get to play the lead and you did it." Suddenly she seemed to remember that adults were present. "Tory _said_ it was an accident when she hit me with her stick during lacrosse training right before casting, but..." She let the grown-ups draw their own conclusions and turned her attention back to Ash. "That was awesome!"

Ash half-shrugged his shoulders and slightly tilted his head. "Ah, no big deal…"

Ilsa and Ames who were standing right behind Ash had to stifle a groan. Joubert and Winston buried their faces in their hands almost in unison while Guerrero had to quickly leave because he was threatening to break a rib from suppressed laughter. He was followed suit by Baptiste. Chance and Philippa, however, could do nothing but stare at their son in wonder.

_Kids can be quite cunning._

Oh yes. Trust Harry to speak words of wisdom.

Slowly they started smiling.

Debbie was practically beaming at Ash. "We're going down to the diner to grab some milk shakes and burgers… Can I invite you? To say thank you?"

Ash turned and looked at his parents for assent – Philippa had rules regarding junk food…

"Go ahead", she said. "Text us and we'll pick you up."

A second later he was gone.

Philippa and Chance stood together in silence quite a while after Ash had disappeared around the corner with the girls. The rest of the team, even Joubert, had quietly left, giving them a bit of privacy.

"You've done well", Chance finally said. "You've raised a great kid."

"_Your_ great kid", Philippa replied after a long period of silence. She fell quiet again and then, almost as an afterthought: "There's something I'd like to ask you, Chance."


	43. sins of the father

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ sins of the father ~**_

The plane was shaking madly, dangerously tipping forwards.

One should think the heavily armed thugs on the other side of the cargo hold's door would notice and decide killing Chance and Ilsa could take a backseat to other tasks, such as saving their lives, for example. But either they were _very _committed to their boss and his wishes or the fact that they were caught in an airplane that was fast tailspinning earthwards hadn't gotten through to them yet.

Judging from the bits and pieces of conversation Ilsa had overheard while lying tied up at their feet in the aisle, she suspected the latter.

Chance pulled up a rather big square bundle from behind one of the many wooden boxes that were standing around. It looked like a parachute. He tossed it towards Ilsa and started looking around again, searching for another one. Outside the door ear-piercing metal screeching could be heard.

Seriously?

Were the thugs really trying to force their way into the cargo hold with a crow bar while the pilot had apparently lost control over the plane they were all riding in?

"I've never parachuted before!", Ilsa shouted at Chance. The plane's engines were howling quite loudly now.

"It's not that difficult. We're flying across wheat fields, almost no trees or overhead power lines. All you've got to do is not break your neck during landing."

Predictably, Ilsa didn't find that very reassuring. "Why can't you just overwhelm the thugs? I don't know, jump them when they come through the door or something."

"Do I look like some super action hero to you?" Chance pulled another box aside. "And what about the crashing plane? I'm no MacGyver either!"

"Well, considering that you broke it in the first place, I figured you might have a plan to repair it…"

"I didn't mean to shoot the main control system. It was an accident while I was saving your life!" He hurried to the other side of the cargo hold.

"Well, I guess _trying_ to save my life would be the more appropriate expression, considering that you've just told me the first parachuting lesson of my life ever will be a learning by doing one!"

The cargo hold door was slowly giving way. Chance looked up from behind one of the wooden boxes where he had been rummaging around, aimed with the machine gun he had stolen from one of the thugs and fired a round – riddling the whole wall with bullet holes. Damaged live wires started hissing and smoking.

"What the hell are you doing?", Ilsa yelled at the top of her lungs.

"The plane can't crash even more than it already is, can it?"

At this very moment the machine doubled the speed with which it was descending.

"I've got good news for you, you won't have to make your first jump alone", Chance told Ilsa, put on the parachute and reached out for her.

"What? NO! No way!"

Chance tore the door open that led to the outside. "There's only one parachute, hold on tight and trust me." He grabbed her, pulled her into his arms and jumped.

Icy cold wind embraced them. For a moment all air seemed to have left Ilsa's lungs. Her skin felt like somebody had slapped her with a washcloth. Straight from the freezer.

"You know I'd never let you go!" Chance's face, pressed against her ear. She could feel his lips moving as he spoke. It would have taken some of Guerrero's torture methods to make her confess this, but although they were in free fall, the ground was rapidly approaching and nothing but his arms prevented her from a death with a splash, Ilsa felt safe.

Speaking of Guerrero…

"Never let me go, right? Then why are you just watching while Guerrero is making approaches to me?"

"Do we have to talk about this NOW?"

"Yes, for heaven's sake! Stop running away from critical points of conversation!"

"Ilsa, in less than thirty seconds we might end up as a sludgy spot on the ground if we don't concentrate."

"You always find an excuse, don't you?"

Chance pulled at the release cord and for a moment they were sucked upwards again before they slowly started floating towards the ground. The unexpected upwards movement caught Ilsa by surprise, she had trouble breathing again. Chance stroked her as well as the position he was holding her allowed, in small circles, with the tips of his fingers.

"I'm still waiting for an answer", she said.

But earth was too close already.

"Prepare to roll over", Chance instructed her.

They landed right in the middle of a wheat field, the plants cushioning their fall. Not too far in the distance the plane crashed to the ground, followed by a loud explosion.

"Don't you think you can wriggle yourself out of an answer! We'll have to walk a long way home", Ilsa told Chance.

"At least I'm not blind this time…" he mumbled.

Ilsa couldn't help but smile. A lot had happened since they had last taken a walk together. And she'd make sure they'd go over every detail of what had changed. Most importantly the kiss he had avoided to ever bring up again. Well, now, stuck in the middle of nowhere with miles to go together, he would have no choice but to…

"CHANCE! ILSA!" Car engine noise and Winston yelling, unmistakably.

Ten minutes later they were sitting in the van, wrapped in blankets. "Ilsa doesn't look exactly happy that we saved you quite a walk…", Winston quietly told Chance, slightly confused.

"She wasn't exactly happy about me saving her life in that airplane either", Chance replied. "It's probably just one of those days."

Grinning, he watched Ilsa in the rearview mirror as Guerrero offered her a cup of tea from a Thermos bottle. She sighed, looked at his friend and accepted it.


	44. Chapter 44

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.  
><strong>  
>Back at the warehouse suddenly all the team members seemed to vanish into thin air, something that surely would have raised Ilsa's suspicion, hadn't she just survived her first parachute jump ever. Not to mention the fact that it had been out of a crashing airplane after being abducted by a gang of thugs whose boss wanted to gain leverage on the Marshall Pucci Foundation.<p>

Speaking of abduction...

When Ilsa came out of the shower, Chance asked her to look up a certain date in the day planner in her office. They had barely crossed the threshold, however, when he pulled a black hood over her head and handcuffed her to the visitor's chair in her office. "Now, Ilsa, what did we learn from today's experience?"

"Aren't hoods and handcuffs usually Guerrero's thing?" Ilsa didn't struggle or try to lash out at Chance. In fact she wasn't even annoyed at this sudden turn of events. By now they had taken her through enough after job "What did we learn from this ?" sessions, e.g. the sleeping-in-a-tent-and-eating-a-water-vole incident, that she knew this was neither about hurting nor about humiliating her. They wanted to improve her skills. Other companies had debriefing meetings. These people preferred a more direct approach.

"He had some housekeeping to do...appointment with a plumber and stuff... " Chance quickly paddled away from the subject. The Irish cop incident was still way too fresh to test her tolerance regarding Guerrero's side jobs. "Tell me, what's today's lesson?", he asked her again.

"Never let a stranger lure you away from the crowd under a pretext", Ilsa grumbled underneath the hood.

"Very good. What else?"

Ilsa rolled her eyes at his mock teacher voice. "Never let him take you to a secondary place. Put up a fight and make as much noise as possible... That's idiotic advice! He had a gun, for heaven's sake!"

"But he couldn't kill you at that party, Ilsa, could he? Killing you would have ruined his boss' plans. When somebody is obviously aiming at abducting you, trying to draw as little attention as possible while kidnapping you, thwart his plans. He is more likely to run and make another attempt later than risk getting caught."

"The "more likely" part is enormously reassuring. How am I supposed to know…?"

"You want easy, Ilsa? Play checkers." Chance removed her hood. "Half a year ago you panicked every time we took away your eye sight." He nodded appreciatively and reached for his back pocket to get the key for the handcuffs.

"You haven't answered my question. During the fall. The one about Guerrero."

Somewhere in the distance the doorbell rang.

"The session is over now, Ilsa. Try and get some rest." Chance fumbled with the key that had somehow got caught in the pocket's inner lining.

"But that's not everything I've learned today", Ilsa objected.

Chance, still fumbling, questioningly raised an amused eyebrow.

"It really pays never to leave the house without a bobby pin."

Now Chance frowned: "Sorry, but…"

While being pushed to the floor of the aisle in the airplane, Ilsa had lost the pin she had been carrying around at the party, but when she had changed into fresh clothes, she had managed to attach another one to the inside of her sleeve. One she had used in the past few minutes to unobtrusively pick the lock of the handcuff. The long training sessions with Ames had finally paid off – with a, granted, not exactly fluid but impressively quick motion she rushed forward and clicked one metal ring around Chance's wrist while the other one was still around her own.

"Nicely done..."

"I'm not going to unlock them till you've answered my question." Ilsa pulled at the cuffs to make sure they were really locked.

"And what if I've got to use the bathroom?"

"I'm going to close my eyes. Did I mention that I'm planning to do paperwork the whole afternoon?" She reached into Chance's back pocket to get the key that was still caught up in there.

At this very moment the door to Ilsa's office opened and Winston stepped in. Along with Lt. Peale and an unknown, frightened-looking woman. Ames brought up the rear.

"Ilsa, Chance, Lt. Peale has a referral for us, this is..." Only then he noticed Ilsa and Chance being chained to each other. And Ilsa's hand in Chance's back pocket.

Well, to an outsider it probably looked more like Ilsa was physically inspecting Chance's posterior.

Winston let the sentence trail off for obvious reasons.

A couple of minutes of awkward explaining later they were all gathered in the conference room. "Ms. Garnett here survived being abducted by a serial killing duo when she was a teenager, more than twenty years ago. Last minute rescue. Of the two men arrested one got the needle, but the other one managed to convince the jury that his partner had forced him into committing all these crimes… he got out of prison a couple of weeks ago and Ms. Garnett … hasn't been feeling safe… ever since."

"I know I can't prove anything!", the woman added rather vehemently. "I know! But someone is following me, stalking me. Ever since that bastard got out of prison… I need protection but the police won't help!"

"We still got our hands full with the murdered Irish police woman", Peale explained. "It seems like finally the Irish police force is willing to hand over the victim's case files. International cases mean tons of bureaucracy…"

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT…" Ms Garnett was on the verge of exploding.

"My hands are tied without proof that you are really being stalked." Peale spoke a little louder, to make himself heard, but not unfriendly. "Our police psychologist told you that you might be misinterpreting things because your abductor got out of prison. But if anyone _can _help you, it's these people."

They sent word to Guerrero as soon as Peale had left. The reply came surprisingly promptly. _"Serial killer involved? Sounds like fun."_

Chance had a pretty good idea what he meant by "fun", and so did Winston and Ames.

It was safe to say, the BRMK case had significantly exacerbated Guerrero's view on serial killers.

They didn't show Ilsa the message.


	45. Chapter 45

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.  
><strong>  
><em><strong>AN: And again I've got to thank veniceit for her very helpful input!**_

"Ames? You still there?" Chance's voice via earpiece.

"Yeah, I'm here." Ames shifted her weight a little. The tree branch she was sitting on was giving her posterior a hard time, in the literal sense. How the hell had that tree woman managed to sit on her redwood for almost 800 days? A couple of weeks ago Ash had had to give a talk on a role model for his social science class. He had chosen Julia Butterfly Hill. Ames had acted as his guinea pig and listened to his presentation.

"So, that tree woman is your hero", she had commented afterwards.

"She did an extraordinary thing…" The way Ash had looked her straight in the eyes when he said that…half-shrugging… the nonchalant note in his voice… a little more practice and he could sell people everything. For now, however…

"Debbie likes trees?"

He had stared at her, caught, then smiled that seemingly shy smile his father had mastered to perfection. "_The legacy of Luna_ is her favorite book."

Ah, the times when things were that easy...

"Just checking. You're unusually silent." Chance's voice brought Ames back to the present.

"Not much happening." She grabbed another branch and pulled herself up a little, giving her back a chance to stretch.

"As if that ever stopped you."

Truth was, after seeing Ilsa and Chance chained together in Ilsa's office, with Ilsa's hand on Chance's ass, she had had a lot to think about. But she could hardly tell him that, could she? "What about you?", she asked instead. "Thought you preferred radio silence?" Then it dawned on her: "You're bored!"

"Well, not much happening…"

While Ames was perched outside Lillian Garnett's house on a tree, Chance was inside, on the attic. So far no sign whatsoever that anyone was stalking Lillian.

"Chance? Ames?" Winston's voice via earpiece. He and Guerrero had taken a look at the client's computer and telephone. "No sign of hacking."

"I really don't understand why Ilsa insisted on taking this case", Ames spoke up. "It seems pretty clear the police is right for a change and it's all in that woman's head."

"Because Ms Garnett deserves being taken seriously, even if she's only imagining the stalker." Ilsa's voice via earpiece, slightly amused. "The meeting with the committee was over sooner than I expected." Oh no, she was with Winston and Guerrero and had heard everything…

Ames rolled her eyes at her big mouth. Looking like a stupid little girl corrected by a superior adult was the last thing she wanted, especially not in the presence of Chance. Damn.

"Lillian has been through hell", Ilsa continued. "She was literally already in the grave when the police found and freed her. I looked at the newspaper articles afterwards – they all stress how lucky she was to be found, how happy she can now be. In public perception the successful rescue outshines the trauma… you get told to forget and move on… but that kind of thing leaves a mark on you forever…her pain deserves attention."

Ames frowned at Ilsa's last words. Was that what she was doing by staying with the team? Paying her pain attention? Giving up everything she had had so far, all those nice things, for their shady way of living because the whole mess with her husband had left a mark on her?

A sudden clenching of her stomach reminded Ames of her own marks, especially husband…ex-husband… wise. Alejandro. The name still hurt. Right along with the name of Ben, her deceased half-brother. Not to mention her bastard of a father. All of a sudden Ilsa's decision to leave the foundation's board, something Ames had been puzzled by since Syria, made a lot more sense.

"Then we should take it _really_ seriously and try to flush the threat out like we usually do, shouldn't we? Only more so, maybe…the location of the gravesite has never been made public, has it?"

"Are you telling us you've got a plan, Ames?" Guerrero, charming as ever. When she had finished telling her plan, however, he grunted appreciatively. "Not bad, dude."

A day later, an interview appeared in the local newspaper.

_Interviewer: So the recent release of your abductor does not scare you? _

_L. Garnett: I've chosen a long time ago not to live my life as a victim. To prove myself and everyone else once and for all that I'm not haunted by the ghosts of the past anymore, that I've left all that darkness behind and have started a new life, I've decided to put myself through the ultimate test. _

_Interviewer: You sound very determined. Which ultimate test would that be?_

_L. Garnett: I'm going back to the place where I was almost buried alive and I'm going to spend the night in a tent there, all by myself. It's a secret location, nobody knows about it, I'm going to be all alone there and show myself and the world that I've overcome my fears. _

"This has "trap" written all over it, even I can see it." Ilsa put the newspaper down on the office's kitchen table and threw Guerrero, who had designed the interview, a questioning look. "Isn't it a bit too obvious?"

"Serial killers think differently, Ilsa. They're instinct-driven. Nature's slaves – they don't think for themselves, all they do is follow their screwed up desires. This article is perfect bait for such a messed-up brain."

"You don't sound like you're supportive of the therapeutic treatment Lillian's abductor received in prison…"

Guerrero snorted dismissively.


	46. Chapter 46

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Lillian Garnett's burial site had been supposed to be on a plateau high up in the Californian hills, in the middle of nowhere, well-protected from curious eyes through a couple of towering fir trees.

Not a nice place, not really. Prior to Lillian, the duo had buried four young girls up there. Of course the bodies had long been removed and found their final resting place on proper graveyards, with their families visiting regularly, but their temporary presence had left its mark on the place. Talk about ominous aura.

"Taft, the older one, referred to this as his "pet cemetery", Lillian whispered. Of course she wasn't alone on that plateau. She wouldn't even have to stay there very long. It was just important that whoever was after her – _if _someone was after her – saw her arrive, apparently alone, set up the tent and enter it.

The "apparently alone" part had been damn difficult to devise. In the end they settled for a multistage plan. The first phase consisted of Lillian dragging a huge bag, seemingly containing camping equipment, from her rented pickup truck to the very spot where, so many years ago, her life had been supposed to come to a violent end.

Thank God the plateau was accessible by car. Back then the duo had chosen this place for exactly that reason – familiar with the hills and woods they had deliberately sought out a place where they needn't carry the bodies of their victims far. Now this specific of the location turned out as a blessing in disguise, albeit a very sad one: Lillian would have never been able to drag concealed Guerrero for more than a couple of feet.

"It's horrible here", she said quietly as she began to erect the tent. "The sounds are the same… this high-pitched huhuhu sound, that's a screech owl… heard it when they opened the trunk and laid me on the ground… ancient Greek legend has it that the call of screech owls leads the souls of the dead to the underworld…."

"You're doing fine, Lillian. Remember, you're not alone, Guerrero is right with you…" Winston did his best to sound as reassuring as possible.

"The mist is crawling up the hill, just like back then. Felt like cold, clammy hands on my skin…I know I asked you to help me, I know I said I'd do anything to find out who is after me, but… I don't want to be here."

"Not much longer, Lillian. Just set up the tent and then we'll proceed to stage two. And don't forget to put your headscarf on." Winston switched the channel and contacted Chance. "Chance, Lillian is coming apart at the seams. Don't think she'll manage to stick it up much longer."

"Copy that. We're ready. But she needs to set up that tent."

Stage two consisted of Ilsa, dressed up as a ranger, driving right onto the plateau and pretending to check on Lillian. While the women chatted, Chance, hidden in her vehicle, would sneak into the tent and join Guerrero. Ilsa would then point something regarding the tires of the pickup truck out to Lillian and the two women would crouch down and disappear between the cars for a second. In that second Ames, also hidden in Ilsa's vehicle and dressed up like Lillian, especially with the same headscarf, would switch places with Lillian. Ames, pretending to be Lillian, would join the men in the tent while Ilsa would drive off with Lillian safe and sound.

So far the plan. Good plan, huh?

Unfortunately they hadn't taken into consideration how much impact the location would have on Lillian. The smell, the sounds (Guerrero suggested shooting the screech owl, but Ilsa objected), the approaching mist… it was all too much. She bravely tried to set up the tent without which the whole plan wouldn't work, but driving the stakes into the ground with a hammer was too much. The muffled sound was too similar to the sound the shovel had made when Taft and the younger one, Russet, had dug her grave.

"I can't! I'm sorry, I can't!" She threw away the hammer, dashed over to her car and drove off with spinning wheels.

As if on cue, her earpiece chose this very moment to conk out.

"Chance?" Guerrero crawled out the bag.

"We're on it!" Chance more or less pushed Ilsa away from the steering wheel and took it over himself, racing up the hill's hairpin curves at breakneck speed.

"I'll collect Guerrero." Since Chance, Ilsa and Ames were on the main road that led to the plateau, Winston decided to take a narrow dirt road. The main problem they had now was that they didn't know which road Lillian had gone down and that she was obviously in a state of utter panic. Chances were she crashed headfirst into one of them.

Unless of course Lillian lost control over her car in an extremely narrow bend before she met either of them...

The spot where she had swerved off the road was easy to recognize – destroyed bushes and deep tire tracks marked it quite clearly. Winston and Chance arrived almost simultaneously.

"I can smell smoke!", Ilsa yelled, jumping out of the truck.

They all could.

Oh damn. Lillian had gone down a very steep drop-off that ended on yet another plateau underneath which a river ran – at least 300 feet underneath… if she had gone over that plateau's edge with her car…

"Be careful with the descend!", Chance told the others. "A broke ankle helps nobody."

Nevertheless they climbed down that hill faster than was wise. Ilsa had seen jobs go south before, but no matter how often things like that happened, she'd never get used to it. And she could tell from Chance's face that he wouldn't either.

Following the car's trail of destruction was easy, lots of trees were damaged left and right, but where was the car? Was it down in the riverbed, trashed to pieces? Or had Lillian somehow managed to stop it? They couldn't see clearly with the trees and bushes, but the intensifying smell of smoke wasn't encouraging.

"Lillian? LILLIAN!"

"Watch out!", an unknown male voice yelled. At the same time two figures emerged from the destroyed thicket right in front of them, running straight in their direction.

"Down! Down!" Lillian's voice.

Thank God. Lillian's voice.

KABOOM

A mighty explosion knocked them all off their feet. The car…

"I'm so sorry! Sorry!" Lillian rushed over to Chance in an awkward attempt to help him up. She had scratches all over her face and arms, her clothes were torn and scorched here and there, but other than that, she was fine.

"I just lost it! I'm so sorry! How in the world could I be so foolish?" She turned around and addressed the stranger that had come dashing towards them with her. "Thank God you were there to help me out of my car in time!"

The young man wore a ranger uniform. "I just happened to be on my usual tour, when I suddenly heard that noise…"

Guerrero and Chance looked at each other. For a split second time seemed to stand still as the two men conversed in silence.

_Are you really sure about this?_, Chance's frown said.

_Dude, seriously…_ said Guerrero's arched eyebrow.

Chance glanced at Winston and he understood. He didn't agree, but he understood.

Then, in unison, Chance and Guerrero rushed forward, grabbed the ranger and proceeded to drag him towards the edge where Lillian's car had just exploded. Winston took hold of Lillian's shoulders and held her back.


	47. Chapter 47

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Guerrero did the trick with the belt.

Not the one with the blades. The other one.

Chance had seen it before, many times in fact, but still couldn't do it properly himself. Not that he had any desire to.

The trick basically consisted of looping a thick leather belt around the captive's wrist and then slowly lowering him down some sort of abyss, out of a higher storey window, down from a bridge or, in this case, a cliff. The thick leather provided slow but increasing compression of the blood supply.

A damn effective method, incredibly painful, as Guerrero had taught Chance through firsthand experience back when his name had still been Junior. The challenge was firstly not to break the captive's wrist and in addition to that to slow the process of compromising the blood supply down to snail's pace.

"Torture is all about increasing and decreasing pain", Guerrero had lectured Junior on that unfortunate day when Junior had made the mistake of doubting the efficiency of Guerrero's methods. "Hurting somebody is easy. But the point of torture in our business is not the pain but the information. The pain merely serves as an incentive to tell the truth. Too much pain causes lies or hysterical breakdowns. Gradual progress is the key, along with anticipation. Nothing can outdo a vivid imagination."

Being lowered down an abyss with the only thing between you and certain death by falling being a leather strap surely enhances your anticipation. And if that leather strap also slowly clamps down your nerves so that it feels like your hand will wither and fall of…

The ranger, however, stuck it out well. "I've been on my usual round when I heard the sounds of a car crashing", he insisted. "All I wanted to do was help!"

"This area is not part of the round of any ranger", Guerrero snarled at the man writhing in pain. "That's why Russet and Taft chose this spot in the first place. It doesn't get regularly visited by anyone."

"But that was a long time ago! I made this area part of my round when I started working as a ranger!"

"Wrong answer, dude." Guerrero slowly lowered him downwards just a little bit more. Gravity did the rest. The ranger broke into a low, drawn out, whimpering cry. "You should have asked _Who are Taft and Russet?_"

"People talk", the ranger tried to defend himself once more, violently coughing from the screams that had been forced from his body. "I heard the names at the ranger station. Campfire stories…"

Chance gratefully registered that Winston had led Lillian away. Apparently Ames had chosen to accompany her. Ilsa, on the other hand, had stayed behind. Eyes wide open in horror, she was watching Guerrero methodically working on the ranger. By her standards she had remained silent surprisingly long. When the man's right hand slowly turned into a ghostly whitish claw, however, she couldn't take it anymore.

"Guerrero, stop!", she intervened firmly.

Guerrero, of course, didn't show any sign of stopping at all.

Chance sighed and turned towards his business partner. "You do want Lillian to live safely, Ilsa, don't you? Mr. Hero's appearance was way too convenient. His timing was just a little too right."

Ilsa could only agree with that – they had checked on the rangers' official rounds, this part of the area was still uncovered. Nobody liked to go here. Nevertheless: "There must be another way, this is just not right."

Guerrero shifted a little, causing the man to cry out again.

"You said it yourself. Lillian's pain deserves attention." Chance spoke slowly, trying to make clear that it would be better for Ilsa to turn around and walk away. Lillian obviously was in danger. There weren't many options to keep her safe.

Ilsa shook her head. "There are boundaries that may not be crossed!"

"Tell that to the girls Taft and Russet buried on that plateau", Guerrero hissed through clenched teeth.

"He really is a ranger!" Winston, coming down the hill, alone. "I got a signal up on the plateau, checked his name and photo. He is who he says he is, Warren Mills, ranger."

"We're torturing an innocent man?" Ilsa's voice peaked with shock and horror.

"Depends…" Winston walked towards the edge of the cliff, where Chance and Guerrero were hoisting the young man upwards. "He changed his name a couple of years ago. His birth name was Warren Russet."

Oh damn, Guerrero had been right.

Once they had the name it was easy for Guerrero and Winston, who used a couple of his police contacts, to compile a movement profile that proved Warren Russet had indeed stalked Lillian. The sad thing was, however, that nothing on his computer, his cell phone, his credit card bills or anywhere else indicated that Russet Junior had done anything wrong in his life before.

The psychologist at the mental institution where he was sent by court order, explained that most likely his father's release had served as sort of a trigger. "As long as his father was in jail, he could ignore the fact they were related. But when his father was set free, the stress of being a serial killer's son became too much. He developed the obsession that he needed to finish his father's work, to placate him, should they ever meet."

"How are his chances of ever leading a normal life again?", Ilsa asked the doctor. Theoretically he shouldn't talk to her about a patient of his, yes, but since the Marshall Pucci foundation had donated a generous amount of money, allowing the institution to purchase new medical equipment and nobody really cared about the young man anyway…

"With his father still out there? Warren's fear of ever meeting him runs so deep, he'll do anything to protect himself from him, and in his distorted worldview that means completing what his father started…Fathers and sons, that's a very strong connection, an emotional bond that exists, no matter how hard we try to block it out."

Guerrero had heard enough. He quietly slipped away and did a bit of research on the computer. A couple of days later a new client arrived at the office, distraught and panicky, someone was trying to kill him, the usual stuff. They tried to reach Guerrero, but Guerrero didn't answer his phone.

He was busy.

Warren Russet senior never saw it coming. He walked out to the trash can in the middle of the night and the last thing he ever saw was the neighbor's cat slipping away into the darkness, obviously scared by something.

A day later the doctor at the mental institution had good news for his patient Mr. Mills.


	48. Chapter 48

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"We finally got word from Ireland." Lt. Peale produced a thick green folder from his briefcase and carefully placed it on the conference table. "Grace O'Malley was part of Dublin's Serious Crime Review Team. It's a task force, brought into being to review unresolved homicides and other serious crimes. They sent us a copy of the last file she's been working on."

"Cold case unit…", Winston nodded.

Peale pushed the folder towards Chance. "Of course this copy doesn't exist." It was hard to say in what mood he was in. He looked serious, but not as austere as last time he'd visited them because of the Irish cop.

"Ironically, her last case doesn't seem to be related to her assassination at all." Peale took the cup of coffee Ilsa had offered him, turned it in his hands, put it down again without drinking. "All this waiting for her file was useless – prior to her stint with the review team, O'Malley worked organized crime. Managed to seriously interfere with the Triad's business in Ireland. As far as it looks now, the Triads put a hit out on her and it was coincidentally carried out while she was working on her case with the review team. All traces point to a notorious Triad hitman."

"So Guerrero is off the hook?" Chance kept his voice level, but on his team the hopeful note wasn't lost.

"He's cleared of being a murder suspect in the O'Malley case, yes…"

They all sensed a "but" coming. A big "but".

Peale sighed. "I would have never thought that I would find anything regarding that man sad, except the fact that we have never managed to nail him for anything so far…"

Now the silence in the room was palpable. What the hell was Peale hinting at?

"O'Malley's last case was about a serial killer who committed murders both sides of the ocean more than forty years ago. We haven't been able to reconstruct from the file yet how exactly she managed to pull it off, but she zoomed in on one suspect, this man…" Peale reached over to the file he had pushed away from him, opened it and indicated a grainy black and white picture of a man in a US police uniform.

Chance saw the name underneath the picture and had to stifle a gasp. Peale looked up and locked eyes with him. Silence stretched between the two men while the rest of the team tried to figure out what in the world was going on. Finally Ames had enough.

"I don't understand", she said.

Peale chuckled humorlessly. "Believe me, you're not alone. We haven't figured out yet why in the world O'Malley took an unpaid leave to investigate the case instead of going the official way, and that's only one of the many question marks this file raises… but we do know that O'Malley had managed to identify a serial killer who, very silently, over the course of several years, had killed dozens of men and women, all ages, all races, back in the late sixties. A rather high ranking police officer, decorated several times, travelled a lot… and used his travelling to get to his victims, apparently."

Silently Ames hoped Chance wouldn't think her stupid for asking all these questions, but this still made no sense to her. "In the sixties Guerrero must have been a small child. What did she want from him?"

"Well", Peale shrugged, "maybe she thought he knew something about his father's whereabouts."

A hand grenade, thrown into the conference room, couldn't have had more impact.

"His _father_?", Winston blurted out. Somewhere in the back of his head, Leonard started laughing maniacally.

"Are you really surprised by this?" Peale shook his head in disbelief. "Even if only half of what is attributed to Guerrero is actually true, he's definitely a chip off the old block, the only difference being that what his father pursued as an obsession he turned into a business. Talk about killing two birds with one stone…"

"Why…" Ilsa took a deep breath. This was shocking news. "Why did you say this makes you sad? You said you feel sadness, why?"

"We did some research on the family. Looks like the father left his wife when his son was only three years old. Didn't come back from a trip to Florida he did for his department. No note of resignation, nothing. Wife took it badly, started drinking… but that's just a side note. Look what became of his son, although he was hardly in contact with his father … he took on that name, Guerrero, and became a notorious criminal. _The king of torture. _For me this points to hereditary factors. Ever heard of the murder gene?"

"XYY syndrome…", Winston mumbled.

"There's no scientific evidence that an extra Y-chromosome causes aggressive or sociopathic behavior", Chance said sharply.

"Well, should we ever get our hands on Guerrero and his father, that might change. For now, it's indeed just a theory of mine." Peale got up and ready to leave. "But I'd advise Mr. Guerrero not to have children, just to be on the safe side. Unless he wants someone to follow in his footsteps."

Peale made his way to the elevator alone. The team remained in the conference room, sitting in stunned silence. The thick folder with a picture of Guerrero's _father_ in it and probably even more importantly, Guerrero's father's _name_, was sitting on the table like a fat, poisonous toad.

A green lantern from outer space couldn't have been more surreal.

Ilsa looked at Chance: "Do you think he knew that?"

Chance firmly shook his head. "No."

Footsteps coming down the metal stairs from Chance's living quarters. Of course Guerrero had, just like last time, listened in to what Peale had had to say.

Neither his face nor his gait gave away what he felt, but the fact that he walked past the conference room without even slowing down spoke volumes. He wasn't walking fast, but he was definitely running away from them.

"Guerrero!", Chance called out, getting up and going after him.

"Dude…"

Guerrero's face was still a stony mask, but his voice… Chance stopped dead in his tracks. Guerrero turned away and left through the side door by the elevator.

"You cannot let him leave like that!" Ilsa exited the conference room and joined Chance in the lobby. "If I understood Peale correctly and you are right with your assumption of him not knowing, Guerrero hasn't heard from his father ever since he was three. His mother was an alcoholic… The father's absence apparently destroyed his family and now, after all these years, that kind of information, on top of everything else? You've got to go and talk to him."

"He probably needs a minute, Ilsa."

"Yes, maybe a minute to pack and disappear! It's what you would do, isn't it?"

Chance wanted to object, but Ilsa didn't let him.

"Where would he go, Chance? To his dungeon? Or elsewhere? Where would he go?"


	49. Chapter 49

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Guerrero weighed his cell phone in his hands. Shannon was in LA. He could make it there in a couple of hours. She had told him in no uncertain terms she wasn't willing to continue their little arrangement, yes, but he knew how to push her buttons. If he really wanted to, he could make her cave in.

Question was, _did_ he really want to?

A night with Shannon would definitely provide some much needed stress relief.

But…

A low beep from his security system startled him from his thoughts and alerted him to a visitor. Guerrero got up and glanced at the security cam's hidden monitor. Something between an audible exhalation of breath and an exasperated snort escaped him as he saw who was making her way up the staircase of the apartment house he holed up in.

Damn.

Ilsa.

Of all people.

A clear case of be careful what you wish for. Shannon would have definitely been the easier solution.

... ... ...

"If Chance gives up any more of my hideouts, I'll have to kill both of you." Guerrero opened the door before Ilsa had a chance to knock.

"Given today's revelations, you could plead "not guilty" afterwards." Ilsa slipped past him into his apartment, shrugging out of her coat and throwing it over one of his chairs in the living-room area before he could object.

The message was loud and clear: She was planning to stay.

Guerrero, however, felt the anger that had been building up inside of him ever since Peale's visit slowly approaching boiling point. "Your idea of a joke?", he asked.

His voice was so icy cold, it made Ilsa stop dead in her tracks. She had figured making light of Peale's comment would somehow ease the tension – Guerrero had always been so open about his violent side… apparently she had been wrong.

"Peale is an idiot", she quickly tried to repair the damage. "Like Chance said, there's no scientific evidence that people with XYY-syndrome are more likely to harm others than normal people. It's a cliché, invented by the media and novelists who were too lazy to do proper research. A modern day version of the werewolf theme. Aside from that we don't even know if Peale's theory is true in the first place. If I were you I'd make a DNA test as soon as possible. An acquaintance of mine owns a private laboratory, it would be easy to…"

"Do you think Peale is right, Ilsa?"

Caught off-guard by the question, she didn't manage anything but a shocked stare.

Guerrero wasn't expecting an answer anyway. "You didn't contradict Peale when he made his murder gene assumption. You're berating him now, but back in the conference room? Not a word from you. Guess that's all I need to know."

Ilsa opened her mouth to reply, then hesitated. He was right, she should have said something. How in the world had he managed to register her silence in such an emotionally challenging moment?

"I needed to process the whole situation first!", she tried to defend himself.

"This DNA thing is a convenient explanation, isn't it? How often have you told me that I'm crossing borders that should never ever be crossed? Now you know why – 'cause I'm a mad man. A freak who doesn't make his own decisions. Nature steers me. Like a puppet on a string."

This time Ilsa knew what to hurl back at him: "I wouldn't feel safe with a mad man!"

Now it was Guerrero's turn to pause in stunned silence.

"Kizuna", Ilsa said quietly. "No matter what your past is, no matter what any test results say, I feel safe with you." With shaking fingers she unbuttoned her blouse, turned her back to Guerrero and let the silken cloth slide down her left shoulder, revealing the tattoo she had been carrying ever since the Crane case.

At first Guerrero neither said nor did anything. But she could hear his breathing grow louder. Then she felt a calloused fingertip carefully, very carefully follow the lines of the tattoo. After a while the other fingertips joined the first one, brushed over her bare skin ever so lightly. In the end he covered the kanji with his palm, applying minimum pressure. Ilsa realized he could probably feel her heart beating wildly in her chest. He stepped towards her, his breath ghosting against her exposed neck.

"Leave", he whispered.

"No."

All of a sudden the warmth of his hand was gone and he was stepping away from her.

"I'm not going away", she insisted.

"The couch is not meant to be slept on and I'm no Chance, I'm not going to offer you my bed and spend the night in the armchair."

"I'll manage." Ilsa started buttoning her blouse. Only when she heard a door close behind her she turned around. Guerrero was gone, apparently he had retreated into what seemed to be his bedroom. She sighed and bent down to test the sofa. Oh my, was it even supposed to be sat on? She had never encountered a harder piece of furniture.

Ah well, she had come here to prove a point an prove it, she would. Maybe if she rearranged the pillows a little? She was just in the process of taking off her shoes when she heard the bedroom door behind her open again.

For a brief moment.

A folded blanket came flying out of it. It landed with a muffled thump on the couch.

And the door was closed again...

Frowning, she spread the blanket out. It was gray, it was prickly and it had a red hammer and sickle emblem embroidered into one corner.

_Kizuna. _

_... ... ..._

Guerrero didn't sleep a wink. The news about his father, himself and the possible consequences for his son alone would have been enough to keep him awake, but Ilsa's presence topped everything off. She had kept the kizuna sign…

With the help of the microphone he had installed in his living-room he listened to her every breath. From her respiratory rate he could tell she lay awake for a long time, probably waiting for him to open his door again.

No. Not like this. She deserved better. Way better.

Around three in the morning Ilsa's cell phone signaled. "Connie? How are you doing? Is everything alright with you? … You scared me! It's three o'clock in the morning here. … The time difference, Connie… The exchange of letters with Carson and Company? Yes, I do have a copy of them, but not here, I'm not at home, I…. Is it really that important?... Yes, I see that that would endanger the funding of the project… no, we wouldn't want that…I'll go and look it up…"

Guerrero heard her get up, fold the blanket…then there was a noise he couldn't identify…her footsteps towards the door… gone she was.

Curious, he got up, too, and entered the living-room. There on the sofa was the blanket, neatly folded, the pillows, put back the way he had them arranged…and a small parcel. Just a gray box, nothing special. He carefully lifted the lid, looked inside – and smiled, for the first time that day.

Gleaming at him in the semi-darkness of the box was the white glass pear from Ilsa's desk.


	50. Loch Ceiteirein

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ Loch Ceiterein ~**_

Ames was lying on the couch in the foyer. Why in the foyer, why not in her own room?

Well, maybe because she had hoped Chance would see her and ask if everything was okay with her….

Ames groaned. Jeez, had she really sunk that low that she was resorting to pity now?

She bunched up one of the couch's pillows and pressed it against her face. The frustrating thing was: It had almost worked. Chance, coming from his morning walk with Carmine, had actually stopped by her side and had looked as if he was on the verge of asking her how she was feeling.

But then the damn alarm system had alerted them to a visitor and it had been _Guerrero_.

Now, she did feel sorry for Guerrero, really, that had been quite a revelation Peale had made and there she was thinking her biological father was a bastard. BUT couldn't he have waited with showing up a little longer? The moment Guerrero exited the elevator, everything was about him – Ilsa and Winston came crawling out of their respective offices, Chance turned away from her, towards him, even Carmine left his food to trot over and rub his head against Guerrero's leg.

Carmine, of course, was the only one able to show his relief at Guerrero's appearance openly. Everyone else tried as hard as possible to behave normally and not scare Guerrero away with an overdose of condolence: Winston did his best telling him off for some shady programs installed on his computer, Ilsa said something about his latest note of expenses needing further discussion…

Chance, however, merely nodded in a subtle gesture of greeting. The two men walked into the kitchen where – was today her lucky day or what? – they were a short time later joined by Philippa who was dropping Ash off.

Now, Philippa sitting down with Chance, that never boded well. What had Ash done this time? Apply for a spot on the cheerleader team? Ames wasn't really eavesdropping, but once her son had disappeared upstairs, Philippa spoke loud enough to be easily heard.

"He and Debbie are seeing each other regularly", she began.

"Well, she seems to be a nice girl..." Chance's voice.

"He invited her to milk shakes yesterday after school."

The mention of drinks, though non-alcoholic, caused Ames' thoughts to wander back to the ordeal at the Claypool mansion, where she had tried to set up a date for Chance with one of her friends while hiding under the back seat in Ilsa's limo. And then, unbidden, her memories moved ahead to the bar, after they had managed to nail Claypool, when she had suspected Chance had a crush on her and tried to confront him about it…

Remembering this embarrassing scene made her cringe and press the pillow harder against her face. How could she not have seen that he had been after Ilsa at that point of time?

Well, his interest in Ilsa seemed to have definitely died down by now, judging from Chance's adventure with Dr. Jessica in Syria. Unfortunately this knowledge didn't exactly make her life easier. With Ilsa out of the way, the irrational part of her brain kept telling her that she might have a chance with Chance after all. The rational part, on the other hand, told her not to listen, to enjoy what she already had with him and NOT RUIN it for a change. Together, the two drove her crazy.

If there only was a way to let Chance know about her feelings without creating infinite embarrassment and awkwardness! But Chance had commitment issues if she had ever seen any. The amount of time he had spent dancing around Ilsa spoke volumes in this regard – he had hesitated till it was too late, till Guerrero had started developing an interest and Ilsa, probably tired of all that back and forth, had reconsidered her options.

While Ames was mulling the current situation over and over, the conversation in the kitchen had taken, from Chance's point of view, a turn for the worse. "Ash knows about the technical details ever since he was four. We used to live near a market place in Hong Kong at that point of time and one day I explained to him that the animals weren't practicing leapfrogging. But getting to know a man's view on it, along with a little refresher course does seem appropriate in the given situation."

Judging from Chance's voice he was rolling his eyes while talking to her. "He's only thirteen, Philippa."

"How old were _you_?"

_Touché. _

"The circumstances were totally different."

Ames frowned. Was she imagining that or was there a hint of bitterness in Chance's voice?

"Different or not, Chance, neither you nor I can be 100% sure what these two do when nobody's looking. I'm not planning to become his warden nor a grandmother anytime soon. Talk to him." And off Philippa went. The men, however, continued their conversation.

"Don't look at me, dude, I've got a couple more years left before that topic becomes an issue."

"She's being ridiculous. Just because he's going out with a girl every now and then… "

"Well, you could practice that banana thing with him", Guerrero finally said.

Now, _that_ comment was definitely enough for already-in-a-frustrated state Ames. She threw the pillow across the foyer, jumped off the sofa and stomped into the kitchen.

"Have you lost your mind? The banana thing? And you think that's enough? You're talking about getting very close to another human being here – that's a huge thing and you want to talk about _bananas_?"

Both men stared at Ames. Her hair was a mess from lying on the sofa for so long, her shirt had ridden up her stomach in an odd angle and all in all she looked a bit weird.

"Everything okay, Ames?", Chance asked, exchanging confused glances with Guerrero. Ames, however, wasn't done yet:

"It's quite telling that none of your children were planned!"

"Dude…"

Chance threw Ames a very angry look. Attacking Guerrero this way when he was already worried about his son thanks to Peale….

But Ames wasn't in the mood to take Guerrero's feelings into account. "Ash needs to learn about closeness, about letting other people through your armor… before he does anything else. And you should be the one to teach him that! But…"

At this very moment, Ash rounded the corner. "Dad? What have I done? Why did Mom want talk to you? Why are you arguing with Ames?" He looked worried and confused.

Ilsa called for Guerrero from her office. Chance looked at Ames for a long moment. Then he took a deep breath. With a brief nod he sent both of them out.

"You haven't done anything wrong. Come on, sit down. Why don't you tell me a bit about Debbie?", Ames could hear him say as they headed to Ilsa's office.


	51. Chapter 51

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Big thank you to niagaraweasel for helping to clear the cobwebs away!**_

From an objective standpoint the conversation with Ash had been a lot less embarrassing than Chance had expected, once they had gotten over the initial awkwardness. He had basically let Ash talk and yes, he could see what Ames had meant. There was a lot more to "it" than "it" and Ash was only just scraping at the surface of it… He needed someone to talk to, to ask questions, to voice concerns to… the only problem was, at the moment Chance felt the urge to lock his son up with Abbot Stevens in that monastery on the mountain top and make sure he'd never leave it.

_Juliet. Maria. Katherine._

Getting close to a woman and then losing her… Chance knew he couldn't spare Ash losses, it would happen to him, hopefully not in this extreme way, but still…. It was inevitable.

What should he tell him about closeness to a girl when all he could think about was that every woman he had really gotten close to was dead?

Chance determinedly shook his head and decided this was a tomorrow problem. He'd deal with it back home. Looking around the jet he figured there were definitely more pressing issues at hand.

"These supernatural cases just aren't Guerrero's cup of tea", he tried to placate Ilsa and Winston. Chance was maybe not that great at reading women, but he knew his friends and they were definitely bothered by something. Since this new job they had taken on in Scotland sounded more weird than actually dangerous, it could only be Guerrero's absence that was making both of them fidgety and nervous.

Come to think of it, Ames didn't look exactly up to par, either… friend number three being worried about Guerrero. Or the long flight had gotten to her. Or both. Well, the jet was about to land in twenty minutes and from Glasgow to that Loch with the strange name… that name… Kay…Kaytayraine or something….he had only seen it in writing so far… no idea how to pronounce it… well, it wasn't far to Loch-whatever-it-was-called and there the new client's problem would hopefully take their minds off Guerrero for a while.

Granted, he, too, wasn't thrilled by Guerrero's decision to stay at home for some "private business", who would be in the context of Peale's disastrous revelation? But since he had run off to an ashram after events in hindsight a lot less significant and world-shattering, who was he to try and change his mind? At least Guerrero hadn't pulled a disappearance act.

"He's a very down-to-earth kind of guy. And aside from that, Scotland in winter isn't exactly a trip to the Canaries. I don't blame him for preferring California."

No reply from anyone. Chance stifled a sigh.

Ilsa kept staring out the window. So did Winston. Ames was watching some movie, but judging from her facial expression, her thoughts were elsewhere, too.

_Private business_, Ilsa thought bitterly. She remembered very well when Chance and Winston had told her they didn't really want to know what Guerrero was up to when he wasn't working with them. "It's better for all of us", Winston had said.

She groaned, frustrated with her windmilling thoughts going nowhere. But even the world outside provided no distraction – they should be well above the British Isles right now, but all she could see was deep dark night and grayish mist. Great.

So, what should she do? Play innocent to Guerrero's antics, like the rest of them? Ignore what he was doing? So far she had had the faint hope that she could somehow, well, if not exactly change him, then maybe rein his violent behavior in, but if it was really inherent… yes, she had told him she was feeling safe with him, and she did, but could she be together with a man who walked out the door in the morning and she would never know if the next thing he did was torture or kill someone?

What in the world had she gotten herself into?

Winston had never been a great fan of psychology, especially not when it came to finding explanations for criminal deeds – too often some shrink half his age fresh from college had ruined a solid case with some tearful story about the offender not getting enough love from his mama when he was a baby. But in Guerrero's case… His father had been a police man. He had left the family, causing the mother to drift into alcoholism and ruin his childhood. It didn't take much of a genius to see the connection with Guerrero's choices in life here…

_Private business._ Winston involuntarily shuddered at the implications of that phrase. What poor soul would have to pay for Guerrero finding out so many devastating facts about his father?

The pilot interrupted Winston's thoughts by telling them that they were due to arrive in Glasgow in a couple of minutes. It was very early in the morning, around them nothing but mist and pitch black night. In California, however, the sun was shining and it was late afternoon.

... ... ...

"Well, Mr. Miller, your résumé and references were very impressive, so was your trial work day, I think there's only one thing left to say: Welcome to the company!" The man who was going to be his boss – jeez, really, his boss? – extended his hand and Guerrero shook it, fighting the urge to break it.

"We'll equip you with a cell phone and a pager – whenever a computer problem in any of our departments shows up, it's your job to play fireman and fix the problem as fast as possible. You've done very well today, as long as you keep up the good work I think we're looking at a very successful partnership."

In the back of Guerrero's mind the mother of his child spoke up, loud and clear – the conversation he had had with her the day before, when he had told her about his plan:

"You? Honest work? Are you kidding me? Did you hit your head during your latest job? Or got an overdose of whatever? What in the world is this about?"

"It's about our son", he had replied. "It's about our son."

... ... ...

Meanwhile on the jet, Ames was watching the lights of Glasgow approaching fast and huddling herself deeper into the seat. For whatever reason she had a knot in her stomach and it had gotten worse the closer they got to Scotland. Was it the upcoming job? Was she afraid of ghosts?

Bullshit. She was afraid of the future. Whenever she saw Chance all but glance at some other woman, she was cringing inside and felt the urge to scratch her eyes out – heavens, she was jealous. But was this jealousy just one of her caprices, some ridiculous idea she had gotten into her head and would go away again once she was really over the Alejandro issue, or was this something real?

Hell, how was she supposed to find out? With any other guy but Chance she would flirt, give it a try, see what would happen… with Chance this could ruin everything.

Damn trap. No surprise she had a knot in her stomach.

"What is this Loch called anyway?" Chance yelled from his seat, startling her from her thoughts. "I can't pronounce it. Ilsa, give us your British expert's opinion."

"It's pronounced "Katherine", Ilsa said. She looked a bit startled, too, Ames noticed.

"Ceiterein" is Gaelic for "Katherine". In fact the English name for Loch Ceiterein is Loch Katrine."

A blow with a crowbar couldn't have had more impact on Chance. He slumped back in his seat.

So much for the tomorrow problem…


	52. Chapter 52

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

**_A/N: Big thank you again to niagaraweasel for her invaluable help!_**

The mist was so bad when they finally landed, so thick and impenetrable, despite the short distance there was no way they'd make it to Loch Ceiterein safely.

One look at the white walls of mist closing in on them and Winston started checking for available hotel rooms in Glasgow. In this kind of weather on that kind of hairpin curves they called roads down here? With those hedges left and right? From his point of view, the matter was not up for debate.

To his utter surprise, nobody argued.

Well, come to think of it, not so surprising since Guerrero wasn't around.

Not even the new client, Estelle Raines, who was waiting for them at the airport, objected. "Every night I don't have to spend in that horrible building is a night in which I actually get some sleep", she said, voice shaking. "I keep hearing Timbo, always around midnight."

Timbo was her recently deceased dog, a beautiful Great Dane, gray with black spots on the back. She had sent them photos of how she had found him: Frozen stiff in the middle of her newly acquired castle's great hall, horrible expression on the poor creature's face, legs standing up at odd angles.

"I found his paw prints all over the kitchen tiles yesterday and the day before. Blood red paw prints!"

It was safe to say, the woman was pretty rattled. And the dead dog was not the only unsettling incident – in fact it had been only the last and most, for lack of a better word, spectacular one in a long row of phenomena like blood red faucet water, changing back to normal water from one minute to the next, telephones ringing and nobody being on the line, radios starting to play on their own, flickering lights everywhere…

Ms. Raines had come to the conclusion that her newly acquired castle by the lakeside was haunted. This was especially bad since she hadn't bought it as some kind of luxurious summer residence – she was planning to open a home for young single mothers and their children. Having once been a young single mother, too, and having had to part with her child for years because she hadn't been able find a proper place to stay, she wanted to spare others the same fate, now that she had come to riches after decades of hard work in the service-providing sector.

"I don't know anymore whom to ask for help", she had said when she had called them. "I've had scientists there, parapsychologists, camera teams, an exorcist, nothing worked. You're my last hope. You protect people, don't you? Can you protect me from my house?"

Ames, having spent most of her childhood and youth in foster care, and Winston, having seen too many bad examples of what could happen to children in foster care, voted for the job, Ilsa was reluctant but not against it and Chance, well Chance decided that the opportunity to go one on one with a haunted castle was not one to be missed.

"Bad news!" Frowning, Winston looked up from his smartphone. "There's an art fair, a classical music festival, a dermatology congress and a punk rock concert in town, all this weekend – could only get us three rooms… "

Since Estelle Raines was an acquaintance of Ilsa's and apparently so shaken that she could do with some sympathetic company at night, it was decided that she and Ilsa would bunk together. Naturally that left Winston and Chance to share the second room, so Ames found herself in the lucky position of having a double bed all to herself.

Ah, for once good fortune seemed to be with her! The hotel turned out to be actually quite nice, clean, comfy… She switched on the TV, sprawled out on the big bed and thought about calling room service, but then the idea of taking a long, hot bubble bath won. The tub had looked so inviting and they had this pink extra foaming soap…

Half an hour later she was stretching out in rose-colored water. With her muscles, tight from the long flight, slowly relaxing finally her windmilling thoughts came to a halt and she could stop thinking about the mess with Chance. Ames practically felt how all her worries floated away, washed off with extra foaming soap.

She picked up a handful of foam, blew softly into the bubbles and a fine cloud flew up, drifted through the room and left a pinkish wet spot on the tiles. When had she last been able to play around like that? The showering facility in the office was just that, a showering facility and she hadn't lived long enough in the house she had shared with Alejandro to actually enjoy the extra-large tub she had asked for to be built in. Smiling to herself, she picked up another handful of foam and blew again. This was just beautiful.

Only when her skin started wrinkling, she reluctantly left the tub. God, she had needed that! The fluffy white bathrobe the hotel provided for its guests felt so soft, Ames felt the urge to purr. And now off to bed for a good night's sleep, once without lying awake for hours, mulling the same matter over and over. No Chance to haunt her dreams tonight!

Letting out another relieved sigh, Ames opened the door that separated the bathroom from the actual hotel room.

And stopped dead in her tracks.

"Chance?"

"Hey, Winston is snoring like a grampus and the client is crying her heart out to Ilsa on the other side of the wall… Do you mind? I swear I don't snore!" Him asking was ridiculous – he was already under the blanket of the left side of the bed.

"Sure. No problem", Ames stuttered.

"Thanks a million – you're the best, Ames." And with that he closed his eyes and was sound asleep within a minute.

Ames sat down on the edge of the bed and just couldn't believe it.

… … …

On the other side of the ocean, meanwhile, with a little time shift, Guerrero was going through what was supposed to become his daily routine from now on.

First thing in the morning, his boss informed him that he had to keep a log file on every single intervention of his. Every time somebody called for his help, he had to write it down. So Guerrero wrote it down:

_8 am paper jam in main office fixed_

_8.15 am disappeared toolbar on chief accountant's computer fixed_

_8.42 am overflowing coffee machine fixed _

_9.02 am paper jam in main office fixed_

_9.34 am disappeared toolbar on chief accountant's computer fixed_

_10.10 am switched back boss' smartphone from Hebrew to English_

_10.38 am solved password issue on staff manager's computer – "0" and "O" are not the same!_

At 11 pm, a text message from Rahul came in: _Branston asked for a helping hand. Interested?_

_Not available_, Guerrero texted back.

_11.05 am computer at front desk is not broken – someone pulled the plug out_

_11.10 am paper jam in main office fixed – staples must be taken out before copying!_

_11.30 am disappeared data for assistant's power point presentation retrieved after accidental deletion_

_11.40 am disappeared data for assistant's power point presentation retrieved after accidental deletion_

_11.47 am disappeared data for assistant's power point presentation retrieved after accidental deletion_

_12.07 pm caps lock key turned off on all computers in the office _

_12.31 pm paper jam in the main office_

_12.55 pm coffee machine_

_1.04 pm disappeared data_

_1.29 pm paper jam_

At two pm Guerrero received a call from the mother of his son.

"So how is your attempt at honest work going?", she asked.

"Fine", he hissed as hot coffee from the coffee machine spilt over his hand.


	53. Chapter 53

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: And once more this couldn't have come into being without niagaraweasel's helpful feedback. **_

"Because you helped me so much yesterday without losing patience." Nora, the chief accountant's assistant, offered Guerrero an oversized cup cake with pink icing and sugar flowers on top. "I really don't know where I had my head."

Guerrero accepted the cup cake and polished it off rather unceremoniously, totally disregarding the amount of time and creativity she had obviously poured into making it. Nora had the personality of a startled rabbit, combined with the talkativity of a corn eating squirrel. Yesterday he had been tempted to slip her some sort of sedative so he could retrieve her power point presentation in peace. How in the world had she managed to delete it four times within two hours?

"My boss would have killed me if I hadn't had the presentation ready this morning. I've made so many mistakes lately… I fear he's thinking about letting me go…"

_And who could blame him?_, Guerrero thought, accessed his e-mail program and started moving documents around on his desk. She still didn't get the hint.

"I really don't know what I did wrong – the presentation just kept disappearing. Sometimes I think I'm just too stupid for this job."

She was most likely expecting him to contradict her. Well, she was definitely barking up the wrong tree. Guerrero remained silent and pointedly started writing an e-mail.

"It's as if I've got bad karma or something. Yesterday, when the presentation disappeared for the fourth time, I swear I just sat there and did nothing. The screen wavered for a split second and gone it was. Maybe a ghost is haunting the office and has chosen me as his victim of choice…" She wore a plain pony tail, rather strict, actually, but one strand of hair just didn't want to remain in place, it kept falling into her face and she kept pushing it back. An enervating gesture if there ever was one.

"There's no such thing as ghosts…" Guerrero kept staring at his screen and Nora finally got the message. She slumped her shoulders, turned around and proceeded to walk off.

"The screen wavered, you said?"

Nora stopped, turned around again. "Yes, only for a tiny moment, but it did waver."

"Let's take another look at it."

As Guerrero walked over to Nora's desk, his private cell phone signaled. A message from the Triads: 我们需要谈谈 – _We must talk._

我很忙。- _I'm busy_, he texted back.

A couple of minutes later Guerrero had worked himself into the deeper layers of Nora's hard drive… where he made an interesting discovery – a nice little program, quite cleverly hidden, that allowed an outside party full access to the computer and could, for example, be used to make data disappear.

Guerrero's first impulse was to make a copy of that program, for personal use. Then he remembered that this was his attempt at honest work. BUT he followed the program's trace back to its root and, surprise, surprise, found himself looking at the front desk secretary's computer.

It didn't take much effort to find hundreds of private messages she had exchanged with the boss' secretary.

"Did you hand in a faulty calculation last week?", Guerrero asked. "Did you miss several meetings that you were supposed to attend because inexplicably the dates got mixed up in your calendar?"

"Yes, how do you know?" Nora was so excited that someone was finally not trying to get rid of her as fast as possible, she was practically bouncing up and down. Again Guerrero found himself thinking that a little sedative could work miracles here. "Did my computer catch a virus or something?"

"Not exactly." Guerrero's fingers flew over the keyboard. "But somebody else's soon will. Meanwhile you should take a look at this."

He got up, letting her have the chair so she could read the PM exchange between the two secretaries properly. Apparently the daughter of secretary number one needed a new job and secretary number two had suggested that Nora's job would be perfect for her.

Guerrero left Nora to deal with this new information on her own.

A couple of minutes later, a hectic call from the front desk reached him. "My computer shows nothing but striptease! Polish male striptease! Help me!"

He took his time to make it to the front desk secretary and he made sure to wait with his diagnosis till one of the higher ups was in hearing distance: "Well, sometimes when you surf Polish porn websites a virus prevents you from leaving the site again. If we're really out of luck, the site will take over all websites that are created by our server so that our customers won't see anything but Poland's picks of the bunch when they try to contact us via internet."

"I swear I didn't…"

"I'm sorry, but the virus clearly got caught by your computer first. And you're not supposed to let anyone else near it, are you?"

… … …

Meanwhile on the other side of the ocean, with a little time difference, Winston got a message, too. They were slowly approaching their client's castle at the lakeshore and he was grateful for every distraction from the narrow, dangerously winding roads with the solid stone walls left and right. Estelle's venturesome style of driving didn't help either.

The message came in via e-mail, a couple of sentences and a long attachment. Blessed be the inventor of smart phones! Winston read the short text and raised his eyebrows, then he quickly opened the attached file.

It didn't take long for the others except Estelle to notice his thoughtful silence. Ames, though a bit hung over from pretty much getting no sleep at all last night except some tossing and turning, quickly started a conversation with her. Winston forwarded the e-mail to the others and one by one they unobtrusively read what had made him so pensive.

Afterwards keeping up appearances and pretending nothing had changed proved challenging, at least for Ilsa, who had suggested taking this job in the first place.

The castle looked impressive, more massive than actually beautiful. With its thick walls, high towers and solid gates it was obviously designed to withstand severe attacks, both from lake- and landside. Built from giant gray blocks of stone it stood up ominously against the cloud laden sky. The waves of the Loch lazily slapped against the shore, the water so dark, it was impossible to see deeper than a few inch. Quite easy to imagine that it probably was home to a cousin of Nessie's…

Except that it was awfully cold inside the building, at first sight nothing out of the ordinary drew their attention. They quickly disposed of their luggage in their various rooms, then Estelle led them into the kitchen, a huge, cavernous room, but equipped with an equally huge stove and thus easier to heat than the rest of the castle.

"Tea?", she asked. "It's a special herbal mixture, my doctor prescribed it to calm me down. I had left it here when I went to pick you up, didn't think the mist would get so bad that I would have to stay overnight."

Even if the tea hadn't reminded them of Guerrero and the reasons for his absence, none of them would have wanted one. There was an urgent matter to be discussed. Winston cleared his throat.

"Estelle, whenever we take on a client, we also check his or her background."

Estelle took a large sip from her tea, her second cup already, looked at him and nodded.

"We know you think Glasgow police didn't take you seriously", Winston slowly but firmly explained. "But they did put together a file on the incidents you reported to them. We obtained a copy of that file."

Suddenly Estelle couldn't meet his eyes anymore.

"Among other things the file contained the report on the investigation regarding Timbo. The _complete _report."

Estelle lowered her head, stared at the floor.

"The police found traces of dog hair in your own deep freezer." Ilsa took over from Winston, face pale but voice just as firm. She hadn't gotten much sleep last night either, and not only because Estelle had cried so much. "All evidence indicates that you killed Timbo, froze him and then put him into the main hall, claiming to have found him there. The police psychologist couldn't come up with a proper explanation, but it seems to be that all the strange phenomena, the noises, the prints, the blood red water, were fabricated by you."

"Are you saying I'm nuts?" Suddenly a fierce expression on her face, Estelle looked up and directly stared at Ilsa. "Do you think I'm a madwoman?"

"From what you told me about the sudden loss of your husband, the void you feel since his demise… it's possible that you're making decisions that you wouldn't make in a calmer state", Ilsa cautiously replied.

"I know what I've seen! I'm not crazy!", Estelle yelled, tossed the cup of tea across the room so that it shattered into a million pieces on the ancient cobblestone floor and dashed out of the kitchen.

"Sorry for not getting the file earlier, my buddy in the department had to pull a couple of strings. Guerrero would have probably been faster…" Winston stopped in mid-sentence, fighting the urge to slap himself. WHAT had he just said?

Chance grinned at him, eyes sparkling.

At this very moment, an ear-piercing scream startled them all.

Estelle.


	54. Chapter 54

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: THANK YOU niagaraweasel! **_

Estelle's agonizing cry echoed through the castle's endless corridors, changed in tone, became a painfully long, drawn out wail and in the end led the team to the great hall. They were fully prepared to find Estelle kneeling naked in a puddle of blood or oddly chained to the wall with the knight's armor that was decorating the far end of the wall pointing a lance at her or some other gruesome scenario.

Actually, however, they only found Estelle. Fully dressed. Standing in the middle of the great hall, apparently unharmed. BUT screaming at the top of her lungs.

"Estelle! Estelle!" Chance grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, trying to wake her from the state of shock she had apparently entered.

"Don't you see? Don't you see?"

Her eyes were torn wide open and staring fearfully at the huge painting above the fireplace. It showed a battle scene, Scots against English, probably early 19th century, as Ilsa absent-mindedly noted. The painter must have been a Scot, judging from the detailed and aesthetically appealing way he had depicted the Scottish fighters, in contrast to the vague features of the participants on the English side. And the milksop faces of those English men that were distinguishable surely weren't a coincidence either.

"They're moving!", Estelle yelled. "The horses and the warriors, they're moving!"

Now everyone stared at the painting. Nope, nothing was moving. Everybody, horses and men, was frozen to the spot, eternally caught in a battle that in the end, no matter how heroic the clansmen fought, the English would win.

"Let's get her out of here", Winston suggested.

Chance tried steering her away, but she seemed frozen to the spot, eyes firmly trained on the picture, shaking all over. In the end he picked her up and carried her away, like a small child. She didn't resist, but her eyes never left the battle scene.

Ilsa watched Estelle, reduced to a whimpering bundle, completely beside herself, and couldn't help but shiver. She had met Estelle years ago at some charity event, alongside her husband. They had somewhat clicked, never been best friends but definitely good acquaintances. The difference between Estelle then and Estelle now was shocking – the sudden death of her husband apparently had changed it all.

"She is completely overcome with hysteria", Ilsa told Chance as she entered Estelle's bedroom. "I've just called her doctor. The number was by the telephone in the kitchen. His secretary said she'd sent him here and asked for directions because usually Estelle visits him at his office."

"There's only one problem." Winston pointed outside the window.

Oh no. Thick white mist was rolling in again from the Loch.

"If the mist gets as thick as it got in Glasgow yesterday the doctor will probably end up in one of those stone walls."

"Somebody could meet him at the junction and show him the way", Chance suggested.

"With a car? Not a good idea, you can't turn around on the road leading up to the main road." Winston walked over to the window and squinted.

"No, not with a car." Suddenly Chance was smiling.

Winston couldn't believe it. How in the world could he be smiling when they were stuck in Scotland in an ass cold castle with a madwoman as a client?

"Ames, you come with me" Chance beckoned Ames to follow him and slipped out the door.

Estelle, meanwhile, had started crying, curled up in a catatonic fetal position. Part of Chance's smile, Winston was sure about that, came from him being able to get away from constant displays of desperation with a believable excuse.

"Where are we going? How are we going to meet the doctor if we don't take the car? Are we going to _walk _to the junction?" Ames voice dropped significantly with the last question, into the regions of "Do I have to tag along?"

"Estelle keeps horses", Chance explained. "It was in the police report. One of the things that tipped them off she was making it all up – the stable hand never saw any of the phenomena she had witnessed."

"You want to ride?" Now the tone of Ames' voice rose significantly.

"It's the best way to move around in this weather. If we get lost the animals will find their way home."

Ten minutes later they were on horseback, on a small plateau overlooking the loch. They still could see quite far, but the mist was definitely approaching. Ames horse was a little nervous.

"Relax Ames, don't tug at his reins too much. Just imagine you were slowly working your way through the various layers of a safe's combination. You wouldn't wildly punch all keys at once, would you?" Chance put a hand on the prancing animal's neck and it calmed down.

Just like Ames.

Last night had been torture, he had been so close and yet so far away… Her overactive mind had developed the horror scenario that her subconsciousness might take over while she was asleep and somehow cause her to… act on her feelings… as in …hugging Chance… or worse….

But now, with him here, overlooking this enormous landscape, the lake, the castle… Suddenly she knew why she… why she… oh heavens, the L-word…

He was making her feel safe. With nobody – ever – she had felt like that. Totally, completely safe.

"I've done some reading about the Loch", she said. "There's a really creepy legend about it. Wanna hear it?" Ames didn't wait for Chance to reply. She liked showing that she knew things. "Once upon a time it used to be a valley with a magical fountain that kept it fertile. The villagers of the valley told some girl, her name was Katrine, to keep watch over it. Sound like the most boring job in the world to me... Anyway, there was this guy, a water demon. Lived in a cave underneath the castle. He fell madly in love with her, but she dissed him and he got really mad. One day a really handsome Highlander, total catch, you know? – visited her at her fountain and gave her wild mountain berries. They worked like roofies – Katrine passed out. Turned out the Highlander guy was actually the demon guy. He took his chance, made a hole into the fountain and let the water flow into the valley. All the villagers drowned. When Katrine woke up she got total guilt issues and drowned herself, too. But her ghost still watches over the valley."

Ames turned around, hoping to find an admiring look on Chance's face, mixed with surprise maybe. Instead she was met with an expression of horror. What in the world had she done?

"The doctor is approaching", Chance said, voice flat. There, in the distance, indeed, that were headlights.

"Then let's get going", Ames spurred her horse into a trot.

"Hang on a second." Chance halted, rose in the stirrups and watched the headlights carefully. "He's not using the junction to get to the castle. He's driving down a short cut… Not easy to find – I noticed it when we were riding up to the platform!"

"So he's been here before?"

Chance turned his horse around. "Back to the castle, fast! You're good?"

He didn't wait for her reply but raced off. Ames' horse yanked the reins away from her hands and followed at hair-raising speed. All Ames could do was hold on to the saddle for dear life.

Well, the "feeling safe"-thing was definitely more an emotional than a physical fact…

Back at the castle, Chance wasted no time: "Take care of the horses and then come up to Estelle's bedroom, but watch out and don't forget your gun… the doctor and I will have a nice little chat."

… … …

"This tea works miracles", the doctor was just explaining Ilsa and Winston when Chance unobtrusively entered the room. "You'll see, Mrs. Rains will be her old self in no time at all. I strongly advise you to have a cup, too. You really look like you could use some."

The doctor had offered them tea right away while fixing it with the help of a hotplate on Estelle's window sill, but both Ilsa and Winston, thinking of Guerrero, had declined. The question what havoc he was wreaking at home still weighed heavily on their minds.

"Maybe _you_ should try a cup", Chance said, opened his jacket and showed the doctor the gun he was carrying. "So we could witness firsthand how herbal drugs turn a perfectly normal human being into a gibbering lunatic within minutes."

Both Winston and Ilsa wheeled around, stared at Chance open-mouthed. Of course…the tea Estelle had been drinking… drugs, in connection with an already difficult emotional state… they could easily cause hallucinations.

Maybe Chance was still rattled from Ames' story or maybe he was just pissed off that innocent Estelle had had to go through such an ordeal. Anyway, he was a bit in Junior mood that evening. "I was not joking. Drink the tea and then tell us what the hell all of this is about."

"NO!" The doctor tried to push the tea to the ground and spill it, but Chance was faster.

"I've just shown you my weapon and you still risk resisting instead of accepting a few hallucinations?" Chance frowned, then made a decision. Forcefully he grabbed the man's hair, yanked it backwards and at the same time kicked his knees so that he buckled to the floor with a pained outcry.

"Drink it or I'll make you drink!", he threatened.

Both Winston and Ilsa stared at Chance in outright shock at this violent outbreak, but Chance wasn't done yet.

"DRINK IT!"

He punched the man's stomach.

"No! It's poison!"

Chance let go of the doctor's hair and let him fall to the floor where he collapsed in a heap. "Explain."

"She told me she was going to hire you during her last visit. The plan was to get rid of all of you – it should look like she poisoned you all, then brought you on her boat and blew it up. I would have written a matching psychological assessment…"

"But how were you planning to get all of our bodies to the boat? You don't look like you could carry anyone." Ilsa stopped herself just in time before she could apologize for implying that the doctor looked old and rather frail. Heavens, talk about deeply ingrained manners…

Winston and Chance looked at each other, stunned – damn good point. How had the doctor planned to…?

An accomplice…

And that accomplice could be only one person… who had told the police he saw none of the phenomena Estelle had described? Killing the big dog… even in a drugged state Estelle probably wouldn't have had the heart to do that, but someone who wasn't attached to it, someone who had access to the grounds at all times, like the stable hand…

Chance knocked the doctor out with a well-placed kick to the head and dashed out the room. He had sent Ames to the stable! Alone! NO!

Racing out the castle's gate he saw a figure standing by the lakeshore – the stable hand. He was obviously on his way back to the castle. Seeing Chance, he stopped.

Chance drew his gun.

The man produced something that looked like a cell phone… or a detonator.

NO.

Chance pulled the trigger. Simultaneously the man pushed a button.

Hit right between the eyes, he then sunk to the ground.

Behind him Estelle's boat exploded in a giant fireball.


	55. Chapter 55

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Would have never come into being without niagaraweasel's help. Thank you!**_

Fire on water. Debris floating on dark waves. Thick clouds of black and gray smoke rising up to the sky. And the smell…

Chance was standing at the waterline, prepared to jump in, dive, look for her, but the smell told him it was too late. The acrid stench of burnt gasoline, melted varnish, sooted wood. The same stench that had risen from the wreck in which Katherine had found her death. It had clung to his clothes, followed him into his dreams, stayed with him for months no matter what showering gel he used and even years later it had returned unbidden in many a night. Until…

Until…

He tried to fight the thought but of course _now _he realized that the smell hadn't come back ever since Ames had moved into the office. Images of her rained down on him like a hail storm, Ames in the office kitchen with her cucumber face pack, Ames watching Jersey Shore on his sofa, Ames and Ash, Ames and _him_… Chance's knees buckled and he threatened to fall. Last night in Glasgow he had practically fled into her bed, running away from Estelle's sorrow and pain, seeking refuge with her…

Because refuge she had been – with her uncomplicated way of seeing things, enjoying life, taking from it what she could get and accepting the rest without brooding too much over it. Her presence had given him peace. The way she had held him after the Crane's death...

He felt like the stench was suffocating him. It was burning his lungs, his eyes… He wanted to scream, but his chest seemed aflame. A raging fire was consuming him from the inside out, reaching for his heart, grabbing it, reducing it to cinders.

"Hey, think you could lend me a hand here?"

Chance almost collapsed. Ames' voice cut through his trancelike state of shock like Guerrero's samurai sword.

"Chance! The water is icy! And the oil film from the gasoline is really bad for my skin!"

At first he couldn't make her out between the debris, smoke and waves, all he could hear was her voice and he wasn't trusting himself completely, what if his mind was playing tricks on him? But then he saw her crawling out of the water, wet as a spotted seal, but unharmed. He dashed over to her, hauled her to her feet.

Ames had a sarcastic comment in mind, something along the lines of "Don't bother, I got it.", but it died on her lips as she saw the look of sheer horror on Chance's face. He was pale as a ghost, he eyes were glistening with tears...and was he shaking? The second she was standing upright she wrapped her arms around his chest and embraced him tightly.

He returned the hug so forcefully, her ribcage was beginning to protest, but Ames didn't care. His reaction, in combination with the sight of the destroyed boat suddenly made her realize how close it had been this time. This could have been it. If picking that lock had taken her only a couple of seconds longer….

And then Ames knew.

She just knew she couldn't wait anymore, couldn't keep on hiding her feelings. One day it could be too late… She stood up on her tiptoes, lifted her face towards his and planted the softest of kisses on his lips.

For a tiny second he returned the kiss, answered her tentative quest gently, but with more strength.

But then he withdrew, utterly perplexed.

"I love you, Chance", Ames whispered.

Again Chance was hit by a hailstorm of images, Katherine, Ames, exploding boats, burning debris on dark water… and he realized he wouldn't be able to survive another loss of a loved one. Death and destruction seemed to follow him wherever he went. The fear of losing Ash to some sort of accident, illness or, god forbid, violent act, already drove him crazy, the mere idea of endangering another person by being too close to him… he couldn't… he just couldn't…

With a painful outcry he pushed Ames backwards, a lot more forcefully than he had intended to. Ames, expecting several different scenarios but definitely not that one, stumbled backwards, lost her footing and fell into the lake again. Icy-cold water washed over her.

When she emerged again, Chance was gone.

… … …

With the mist still thick, it took the police ages to show up, but to Winston it was a blessing in disguise. It gave him time to devise a believable story with Ilsa. In the end they decided she would claim having shot the stable hand. He told her to fire Chance's gun so that she'd have gunpowder traces on her hand. Estelle was still so out of it, nobody would pay any attention to what she had to say. The doctor's statement didn't prove much of a problem either – they made it very clear that, should his version of the events contradict their version, he'd regret it.

Winston couldn't help but think that Guerrero would have gotten this message across a lot faster.

Anyway, in the end everything went smoothly, the police took Ilsa's statement but, considering the huge drug stash they found in a cave underneath the castle and the very interesting construction with which the duo had sent packets of drugs straight from the Loch to Glasgow, using the tunnel that provided the city with freshwater, they didn't inquire too thoroughly about the details of the afternoon.

Exhausted from the ordeal with the police, Ilsa made her way back to the castle, thinking how strangely ironic it was that she had shot two people so far but was held accountable for a killing that was not hers. Thank God they had swallowed Winston's lie hook, line and sinker and saw the whole incident as a clear case of self-defense.

On her way to her bedroom she passed Chance's door. Tired as she was she almost walked past it, figuring she could use the house telephone to tell him they could go home tomorrow, the police was letting them go. In the end, however, she decided she didn't want to face the emptiness of her bedroom just yet and knocked.

It was only a soft knock, barely audible. But he heard it – "Come in!"

Ilsa smelt the Whiskey the moment her foot crossed the doorstep. Chance was standing by the window, drink in hand, staring into the darkness outside.

"I could do with one, too", she said.

"Only if you don't bring up the last time one of us had a bit of a drink after a case that involved drugged beverage." Chance kept staring out of the window. The room was only dimly lit, the pane reflected his silhouette, but Ilsa couldn't see his face.

"Don't worry. No word about the damn kiss. Let's just forget it." Ilsa took a glass from the filigree drawer where Chance had apparently found the bottle of Whiskey and helped herself to a generous amount.

"How come?", he asked, still with his back to her. "Kisses are important, aren't they?" He took a large sip from his glass.

"We shouldn't have left without Guerrero", she said, ignoring his question. "Who knows what he might be doing now?" She emptied her glass fast.

"No matter how much you watch him, you can't domesticate him, Ilsa. He is what he is. Can you live with it? Decision's up to you." Chance poured himself and her another drink.

She finished hers so fast, he had to refill it again almost immediately. "What's the matter?"

"Guerrero is the matter. You are the matter. Winston is the matter. Ames is the matter. My whole new life is the matter. I've been listening to Estelle crying for her husband a whole night… She's building this home for single mothers because she wants to fill a void in her life… she threw everything she had out of the window and tried to start something new because she couldn't deal with the pain… Made me wonder if I'm doing the same…" Ilsa's voice was slightly slurred by now.

"What…do you mean?" Chance's voice was getting a bit unsteady, too. Nevertheless he poured both of them more Whiskey.

"I've given up everything, Chance." She drank slower this time. "My position with Marshall's family, my position with the board, my position in society… my whole life. Am I running like Estelle? Maybe I should stop trying to force myself into your world and face my own again. My world. Without Marshall."

Chance had to grab the windowsill to steady himself and it was not the alcohol that made him sway. No. Guerrero had chosen to leave him alone, dealing with his own problems in God knows what way, he had just very literally pushed Ames away and now Ilsa was implying that she was leaving?

"No. You can't go."

"Why not?" Ilsa put down her glass. She was swaying slightly, too.

"Cause you'd be running from pain again."

For the first time since Ilsa had entered Chance's room they looked each other in the face…and found themselves looking at equal pain, equal sorrow, equal despair.

None of them could later say who kissed whom first. But kiss they did.

And more.

… … …

Ames had spent the afternoon in emotional turmoil. Confined to her room since the police better not see her, she had spent hours walking back and forth between bed and vanity table, desperately trying to find out what she had done wrong down by the lake.

Heavens, she had seen the worry on his face, the anguish about her being in danger! And he had returned her kiss! She had felt him relax, had felt him wanting this… and then he had pushed her away.

In the end she figured there was no way she could figure out this puzzle alone. She needed to handle this the adult way. By talking to him. Now. Thank God the police was gone.

Fiercely determined, she exited her room and made her way down the long corridors to Chance's door. Her footsteps echoed from the thick stone walls. She would not let him wriggle out of this! As a guy, he naturally wasn't keen on talking about his feelings, but this time she wouldn't let him off the hook. He would have to answer her!

Stopping right in front of Chance's room, Ames stepped forward, raised her hand – and halted in midair. The noises that were coming from the inside…this couldn't be… part of her knew right away what she was overhearing, but the rest just couldn't believe it.

Walking away would have been healthier, especially after the day she'd already had, but she was frozen to the spot, couldn't bring herself to move even an inch.

Chance with Ilsa… mere hours after she had told him she loved him?

Her tears started flowing softly, only thin lines at first. But they became more, ran down her face in one continuous stream. At last they woke her from her trance-like state. Barely able to hold herself upright, she stumbled away.


	56. Chapter 56

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

At Glasgow airport, while the jet was rolling in position for them to board, Ilsa stepped aside and pulled her cell out.

"Put that phone away."

Ilsa wheeled around and found herself face to face with Winston.

"I do not think you…" Last night's whiskey had made her voice raw as sandpaper.

"You're not going to call your driver or whomever and arrange transportation to London." Winston had pulled himself up to his full height. There was no mistake about it: He was meaning what he was saying."

"This is none of your business", Ilsa tried to protest weakly, but thanks to the mighty hangover she had woken up with, all her usual vigor was gone.

"I don't know what happened last night and the more I think about it the less I want to know, but you're not going to take a powder and hide in London, licking your wounds. You're going with us back to San Francisco and help sort out this mess!" He reached out, took her cell phone away and stomped off.

As the jet slowly made its way back to California, Winston couldn't help but think that he had never perceived the engine's various noises that clearly. The groaning as the hydraulics powered the steering system, the slightly increasing swoosh of the air conditioning when the plane climbed to reach its cruising altitude… You could have heard a pin drop.

Chance and Ilsa looked both so hung over, Winston expected them to fall asleep somewhere across the Atlantic Ocean. None of them did, however, and that, together with the fact that they didn't even look at each other, let alone exchange words, only confirmed what he had already guessed.

Damn it. He might have briskly told Ilsa to help sort this mess out, but he seriously had no idea what she, or anyone else for that matter, could do. Winston was at a loss.

It was a very long flight home.

At the airport Ilsa jumped at the chance and disappeared into a taxi before Winston could hold her back. At least he managed to maneuver Chance into his car before he could slip away, too. Talking about last night, of course, was out of the question. Chance's face spoke volumes. A solid mask of stone if he had ever seen one.

Carmine was still at the kennel, so nobody greeted them when they got to the office. The silence of the empty rooms, the echoes of their footsteps on the floor made the reality of the situation sink in even deeper. Wordlessly Chance grabbed his stuff and headed up the stairs to his living-quarters.

Just then the doorbell rang. Winston quickly checked the monitors.

"It's Ash."

Yes, he was disappointed. It had been unlikely, but hope dies last, doesn't it.

Or course they couldn't let Ash stand outside. It was strange that he stopped by without calling ahead, though. As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, however, Winston knew that the boy had a problem. Oh great, welcome to the club.

"Where's Ames?", he asked, after briefly greeting his father.

Chance froze in mid-motion. So did Winston. To Ash it looked as if Chance hadn't heard the question, so he repeated it, a little louder this time. You never know with these elderly people… "Where's Ames? You think she's got time for a chat?"

Oh boy, what would Chance have given to not have to answer that question. "She's gone", he finally replied, voice croaking and not from too much whiskey alone.

"What do you mean, she's gone? Gone where?"

Winston noticed that Ash seemed quite upset about this news. His voice climbed, he was looking rather taken aback.

"Don't know." Chance was steadying himself against the stair's railing.

"Why?"

"She quit. She's not working here anymore."

Ash just stared at his father. Years of living in places all over the world where he, more often than not, had not been able to understand the local language, had taught him to pay attention to people's tone. He knew when not to inquire further.

Chance turned around and headed up the stairs.

"Why did you want to talk to Ames?", Winston asked the boy.

"Nothing important."

Winston knew the expression on Ash's face only too well – jaw firmly set, eyes small and hard. Something was up and he was fiercely determined not to spill the beans. Jeez, just like his father. And look where it had brought him…

Ash called his mother to pick him up and disappeared a short time later.

Burying his face in his hands, Winston sat down at his desk. This had the potential to tear them all apart.

He sat like that for a long time, read Ames' note again, sat some more. Finally, groaning and not quite believing that he was actually doing this, he pulled out his cell phone.

Desperate times called for desperate measure.

… … …

Guerrero's fingers were itching.

He was watching numbers on his computer screen moving up and down. The urge to plant a tiny little link that would send the same information to his personal computer at home was almost overwhelming.

Transactions. Huge amounts of money being moved back and forth between here and the Caimans. His boss' little side business.

Guerrero sighed.

Maybe only a small little bug, just to be on the safe side?

This was tempting.

His cell phone signaled. Grateful for the distraction, Guerrero opened it. A new text message had arrived.

_Need you here. W. _

Guerrero read the message three times, now fighting the urge to text back: _Are u saying u need my help, Winston? _Instead, however, he started typing on his computer.

About a minute later, Nora stopped by his desk: "I brought you coffee." Smiling shyly, she placed a cup next to his keyboard.

"I drink tea", he replied, eyes trained on the screen.

Nora, predictably, looked crestfallen and picked the cup up again. "Am I interrupting you? Seems to be quite important, what you're writing…"

"Just my letter of resignation. Sort of."

"You're leaving? NO!" Now she looked positively sad. "I need you."

"I'm not your guardian angel. Stop relying on other people to watch your back. Take care of yourself or soon someone else will try to bully you out of the company." Guerrero punched one final key and then got up.

"How complicated would it be to send a link to the PM conversations of the two secretaries to our board of directors? They've talked about more than just me..", Nora hesitatingly asked his retreating backside.

Guerrero stopped and turned around again, arching one eyebrow. "Dude…"

Half an hour later he finally walked out of the company for good. At the foot of the front stairs he activated his cell phone and called the mother of his child.

"That top notch kindergarten you told me about… hand in the application. We can afford it."

She laughed. "So your attempt at honest work opened some new sources of income?"

Remembering the very interesting "secret" file Guerrero had discovered on the CEO's computer while showing Nora a couple of things, he replied: "That trip to Disneyland you talked about… consider it OK'ed, too."

"Maybe you should attempt honest work more often."

After hanging up with her, he sent a short message, only three letters, knowing full well that trying to decipher them would drive Winston nuts.

_O M W  
><em>  
>On my way.<p> 


	57. impending departure

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Again thank you to niagaraweasel for her relentless help!**_

_**~ impending departure ~**_

Winston awaited Guerrero's arrival in the alley behind the warehouse. "Guess I should thank you for putting your _private business_ on hold", he grumbled as Guerrero got out his car.

"Good to see you, too, Winston."

Winston pushed Ames' note into his hand. "Don't know the details."

Guerrero glanced at it, shrugged and handed it back to him, already walking towards the back entrance.

Winston fought the urge to throttle him. This whole not talking thing that Chance and Guerrero seemed to have brought to perfection in their assassin years was mightily getting on his nerves. "You don't look surprised."

"Seems like a Maria incident to me." Another shrug from Guerrero.

"Ilsa is somehow involved, too."

Now _that_ got a rise out of him. He stopped in mid-motion, looked at Winston and raised an eyebrow.

"Don't know the details of that either. But I practically had to force her at gunpoint to board the jet."

All of a sudden Guerrero grew very, very still. Winston felt reminded of the moment before a tsunami hits the shore, with the water withdrawn deep into the ocean and all birds eerily silent. Then Guerrero nodded and Winston almost jumped at the movement, so blood freezing had his stillness been. They made their way up to the office in a skin-crawling silence.

Winston couldn't help but wonder: Had it been a good idea to call in Guerrero? The potential consequences, should the answer turn out to be "no", made his stomach churn. Could there have been something between Ilsa and Guerrero that he had missed? And Chance had…?

Good Lord.

"Don't interfere", Guerrero said as they stepped out of the elevator. "I'm not going to kill him."

Winston debated forcing him at gun point back into the elevator and out of the office, but to what avail? He had spilt the beans and unwittingly made everything even worse. Damnit, he had known it from the start – add women to the picture and things get messy.

What a pigsty.

… … …

Guerrero found Chance in the kitchen. "You look like Nessie swallowed you up and spit you out again for tasting badly."

It was a very accurate description. Ever since waking up with naked Ilsa by his side Chance hadn't slept for more than a couple of minutes in a row. His body was protesting vehemently against this maltreatment, his fingers were shaking, his eyes were bloodshot, cold shivers were constantly running down his spine, every physical function of his body was screaming for sleep. His mind, however, didn't leave him alone, alternately kept him awake or sent him nightmares.

"Didn't expect you", Chance croaked, staring at his cup of coffee.

Silence stretched between them. Guerrero's eyes never left his friend, watchfully studied his shivering, huddled frame.

"Sparring?", Chance finally asked.

After a moment of doing absolutely nothing except breathing, Guerrero nodded.

Winston saw them walking over to the workout area and could have kicked himself for calling Guerrero in.

… … …

Chance tried a risky, slightly altered Hiji Ate, combined with an even riskier side kick. It was practically an open invitation to Guerrero to grab his leg and painfully knock him off his feet. Guerrero however merely grabbed his leg and held on, slightly moving backwards so that Chance had to balance on one foot only, not an easy task in his state. "Dude, spit it out."

"Remember Tokyo, the girl with the red dress, I said I wasn't interested, but later…" Chance let his voice trail off and braced himself for Guerrero's reaction that would surely be very physical and very painful. But Guerrero just held on to his leg. His grip was a bit more iron, but other than that nothing indicated retaliation.

"Tell me about Ames."

Now Chance was surprised. He had thought the Ilsa news would be enough to send him over the edge. "Remember St. Maurice, when that girl…"

Chance never managed to finish the sentence. Guerrero yanked the leg he had been holding forward, delivered a kick to his standing leg, twisted him around during the fall, grabbed Chance's left arm, used his own momentum to pin it to the ground and broke his wrist with one sickening snap.

Chance's cry of pain echoed through the office and sent Winston running from his desk.

"You should take him to Dr. Grace." Wiping the floor's dust off his pants, Guerrero got up and headed towards the shower.

Winston would have probably shot him, hadn't Chance been rolling on the floor, curled up in a tight ball.

… … …

When Guerrero stepped out of the office's showering facility, he knew immediately that he wasn't alone. Everything was silent, but the office didn't feel empty. Someone was here… He closed his eyes, trying to locate the disturbance in the atmosphere he was sensing.

Noise. Very faint noise. Coming from Ash's room.

Utterly quiet, he made his way upstairs, approached the boy's room, slowly lowered the door handle…

There was Ash, typing away on his computer, obviously very concentrated. He jumped when Guerrero made himself known. But he nevertheless remembered, with a single, casual touch of his finger, to darken his screen, just like Guerrero had taught him. He was a fast learner, just like his father.

"Winston let me in. He's taking Dad to a doctor. You had an accident while working out?" Ash's voice was tinged with a hint of incredulity. He knew from first-hand experience how precisely and controlled Guerrero sparred.

"What are you doing?" Guerrero asked, nodding at his computer.

"Nothing." Ash definitely had to work on his lying skills.

"Dude…"

Ash had learned quickly what _that_ tone meant.

"Thought I might find Ames…" He reactivated his screen and looked away.

"By _googling_ her name?"

"How would you do it then?" Suddenly Ash sounded frustrated and angry. He wheeled around and looked Guerrero directly into the face.

"Why do you want to talk to Ames so badly?"

Ash fell silent, looked straight at his computer screen, jaw firmly set. However, withstanding Guerrero's piercing look for long wasn't in his repertoire yet.

"Debbie is moving. To Ohio." He started typing again, shoulders slightly rolled up, as if protecting himself.

Guerrero said nothing for a long moment, trying to ignore the obvious similarities between father and son that sent his mind more years back in time than he cared to remember. Finally he pulled up a chair and sat down next to the boy. "To find somebody, you need distinct sets of data. Three is a good number, you can triangulate an answer from them…." He let the sentence trail off, trying to figure out which sets of data would be appropriate without giving Ash too much…

"Maybe we could start with museums which have something highly valuable on display?", Ash interrupted his thoughts.

When Guerrero reacted with nothing but a questioningly raised eyebrow, he continued: "She's a thief, isn't she? She taught me how to pick a lock when I accidentally locked myself in the bathroom. Made me swear not to tell dad. And it makes sense, doesn't it? As a bodyguard, you sometimes need someone to get you things…."

Guerrero couldn't help but wonder how much longer it would take Ash to figure out the truth about his father.

… … …

On his way back from Dr. Grace's premises, Winston once more recalled the conversation he had had with her: _I've never seen a cleaner break. Usually broken wrists are horribly tricky, the biggest problem being the blood flow of the bone fragments that might be compromised and in eighty percent of the cases leads to permanent damage. In normal cases recovery takes months and requires intensive physiotherapy. Chance's fracture, however, is so thin and straight, it will take about two or three weeks to heal, no additional therapy. And it's not even his gun hand. Tell Guerrero, good work._

As he watched Chance sleep in the passenger seat - finally! - Winston couldn't shake off the feeling that indeed, this whole wrist thing to Guerrero was not revenge but work. To help Chance get on his feet, as twisted as the idea was. Chance had a tendency to physically punish himself for mistakes. That's where his crazy ass stunts came from. Guerrero had delivered the punishment Chance had longed for… as an act of friendship, not wrath.

A man who was able to control his own emotions to that degree, could he really be genetically prone to violence and aggression, as Peale had implied?

Winston decided to take another look at that file about Guerrero's father.

… … …

When the security system announced Winston's and Chance's return, Guerrero decided to leave and take the freight elevator. He had a lot to think about.

As the doors slid close behind him, his cell phone signaled. A text message.

我们需要谈谈 – _We must talk._

The Triads again.

已经过协议的 _– __Agreed, _he texted back.

Yes, he was grateful for the distraction.


	58. Chapter 58

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"He's a good mayor. He's doing what he can." Chance poured himself another cup of coffee without any difficulties. Although Dr. Grace had put a hard plastic splint around his wrist, it didn't impede him much and he wasn't left-handed anyway.

"Seriously? He is pompous, he alters the truth whenever it suits him and he is way behind with fulfilling his pre-election promises ." Philippa scowled at the mayor's portrait on the front page of the San Francisco Examiner.

"A politician who doesn't keep his promises…", Guerrero tsked from behind her, obviously mocking her. He helped himself to some coffee, too.

"You're just angry with him because of the new water meter that you've got to install." Chance sat down in front of her again, charming smile on his face. He looked a lot better than yesterday, before sparring with Guerrero. Of course Ames' absence was still on his mind, so was the unresolved issue with Ilsa, but at least he was able to put his bright façade on when necessary.

"350 bucks! They add one sentence to the city's tax regulations and I've got to cough up 350 bucks!" Philippa stuck her tongue out at the mayor's picture.

They were not really arguing. Philippa had stopped by to discuss the details of Ash's stay with Chance next month. Getting to know Chance a little better had changed her opinion on him quite significantly and after the Romeo and Juliet ordeal she had had enough confidence in him to trust him with the most important thing in her life.

Right after Ash had disappeared with the girls she had told him about her plan to spend a month in New Zealand and asked him if he would watch over Ash in the meantime. "I haven't seen my family in thirteen years", she had explained and of course she hadn't needed to say anything else. Ash was more than welcome at the warehouse.

"I could help you out with the money", Chance offered. "Why don't you do something for yourself this evening? They're showing Casablanca at that old theater…"

"I really hate that movie, " Philippa snapped back, harsher than she had intended. Chance's offer had caught her off-guard. If she took it, what impact would that have on their already complicated relationship. Independence had saved her life so many times… it was unsettling enough that she was going to leave Ash in Chance's care for a whole month.

"Cup of coffee?", Chance asked, unfazed. "I suggest decaf."

"This battery acid of yours? No way."

Ash, also sitting at the kitchen table, watched his parents bicker and frowned. They couldn't be any more different, could they? "Where did you two meet?"

To Chance and Philippa the question came totally out of the blue.

"In a library", Philippa hectically replied.

"In a café", Chance said at the same time.

"In a café in a library", Guerrero mumbled from the kitchen counter, his back to the three at the kitchen table, so Ash couldn't see he was rolling his eyes.

Luckily Winston entered the kitchen area before Ash had time to reflect too much on his parents' answers. "We've got new clients. Sounds like some sort of extraction thing. You up to it?", he addressed Chance.

Philippa took this as her cue to take Ash and leave.

"Course I am", Chance replied, switching back to his still quite hungover self.

An unspoken question hung between them like thick Scottish mist.

"Call her", Guerrero finally said.

Chance's face darkened, but he didn't say anything, just took another sip from his coffee and stared at the table surface as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. He could feel that Winston was resting his eyes on him.

Chance drank some more coffee. There was a long thin scratch in the wood he had never noticed before. _Knife cut or ricochet shot?_, he idly wondered.

Winston didn't let go. He kept his eyes trained on his friend.

Exasperated, Chance finally looked up, a wordless WHAT? on his lips. Winston just kept staring at him, eyebrows questioningly raised – at least for ten seconds, then he realized he was imitating Guerrero and dropped it.

Sighing, Chance nodded in agreement.

Finally content, Winston headed back to his desk.

His call was answered surprisingly fast, after the second ring. Unsurprisingly, however, his request to show up at the office a.s.a.p. was met with resistance and flimsy excuses.

"These people come to us because nobody else can help them, Ilsa", Winston finally thundered. "This isn't some committee you can choose to drop out of. Lives are at stake and we're already one member short. Are you a part of the team or not?"

Half an hour later Ilsa's limo pulled up in front of the warehouse.

"This is the address you asked for, Mrs. Pucci, isn't it?", her driver cautiously inquired after about five minutes, slightly confused when his employer didn't get out of the car.

Ilsa didn't reply. She didn't even hear him. Ames' note kept springing up in her mind. _Sorry. Can't be around Chance any longer. Self-preservation. Thanks for everything._

It was bad enough waking up naked next to an equally naked Chance, but then discovering that Ames was gone? Just like that? Vanished? What in the world had Chance to do with that? She just couldn't make sense of it.

Aside from her confusion about Ames' sudden and painful departure (the mere thought of going up to the office and not finding her there hurt), there was also the Guerrero issue…

"Mrs. Pucci?", the driver asked again, getting concerned.

"I'm fine." Looking everything but fine, Ilsa stumbled out of the vehicle and made her way upstairs. Winston and Chance were in the conference room. Winston welcomed her warmly. Chance nodded vaguely in her direction. A muffled noise from the direction of the kitchen area that vaguely sounded like a fridge door opening and closing told her that Guerrero was around, too.

There was no use in postponing this.

She excused herself and crossed the short distance to the kitchen, fighting her buckling knees every step of the way. Guerrero was indeed there, leaning against the counter, eating an apple.

"I…", she began.

"For now, boss, I'd prefer radio silence", he said, threw the apple core into the sink and walked past her to join the others in the conference room.

The ding of the elevator announced the arrival of their new clients.


	59. Chapter 59

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"This is our daughter Lindsay." The client's hands shook so badly, he barely managed to retrieve the photo from its envelope. In the end his wife reached over, took it from him and handed it to Winston. Her hands weren't shaking, but her haggard face and her pale complexion spoke volumes.

The picture showed a blond girl with freckles in a cheerleader uniform, waving pompoms at the photographer. "Didn't you say she was twenty-two?", Winston asked, slightly frowning. "She looks young for her age."

"The photo was taken a couple of years ago, when she was sixteen. We couldn't find a more recent one", the wife replied.

Not even trying to be subtle, Guerrero switched on his tab pc and started typing.

"About six months ago we found out that Lindsay joined this sect…", the father began, voice trembling. "They're living on a farm, completely isolated. We've spoken to defectors, they showed us the sign the followers are marked with… a branding iron… to the naked flesh…" He broke off.

Winston nodded, activated the computer table and continued for him: "The Children of Arturius. They believe that about 200.000 years ago a spaceship from a planet called Arturius was stranded on Earth after a cosmic storm." A colorful photomontage, apparently from the sect's website, appeared on the screen.

"Arturius? Never heard of it", Chance chimed in.

"Yeah, that's because the Artureians hide it from the NASA – they're technically advanced and have an invisibility shield that protects their planet from Earth's telescopes. Actually it's located right behind the moon." Winston showed them a map with a red arrow pointing at, well, nothing.

"The ship's passengers mated with exemplars of the homo erectus species and thus created the modern homo sapiens. Some of the passengers, however, didn't mate with the earthlings, they stayed among themselves. Their children were superior to the homo sapiens children and thus awoke the jealousy of those passengers who had mated with the earthlings." Winston showed them another colorful photomontage, depicting aliens staring daggers at cute babies who were… _sparkling?_

"They tried to kill the purebreds, but some parents managed to hide their kids away and thus a line of true aliens was preserved, to this very day. Unfortunately, however, through wars, epidemics and other mishaps nowadays only one descendant of that line is still alive." Winston showed them the picture of a man with shoulder-length hair, shaggy beard and oddly old-fashioned looking clothes. "Arthemio. Sect leader and only heir of the shipwrecked Artureians."

"Is that a bow in his hands?", Ilsa asked. Merely looking at that man gave her the creeps. She glanced at Lindsay's picture again. Aliens, spaceships, bloodline, she could guess where this was heading… They had to save her.

"Arrows, shot at the sky, symbolize the sect's connection with outer space", Winston explained.

"Let me guess. It's Arthemio's declared goal to revive the bloodline." _Meet one and you've met them all_, Chance silently added.

Winston nodded. "Arthemio claims his genes are so superior, if he mates with a woman, his children will only carry Artureian DNA, the human DNA will be eliminated during pregnancy. It's quite safe to say, he's a strong advocate of polygamy."

"In the end it always comes down to sex."

Everybody wheeled around. They had almost forgotten Guerrero was there, too.

"Why don't you tell us why you couldn't find a more recent photo of your daughter?", he addressed the father.

"I've got no idea what you're talking about", the man replied, rather taken aback.

"No problem, I can put the copies of the CPS file on the screen. Just give me a minute." Guerrero produced a cable and proceeded connecting his tab pc with the computer table.

"We've had problems with Lindsay!"

The wife's admission came literally at the last moment: Guerrero's finger was already hovering over the sensor that would have displayed the file on the big screen.

"What kind of problem?"

The wife looked away, now shivering just like her husband.

"Guerrero…" Winston warned. Chance didn't look happy, but stayed mum. So did Ilsa, although, judging from the way she was shifting in her seat, she was having a harder time with this.

"Maybe we should let the file speak for itself." Guerrero's finger having been withdrawn in the meantime, moved back to the sensor.

"She was pregnant!"

The wife was crying now. The man looked shell-shocked.

"So where's your grandkid? At the babysitter's?"

The wife jumped up, so forcefully that her chair crashed to the floor: "I have enough of this!"

Her husband, however, grabbed her hand and held her tight by the wrist. "These people are our only chance." He set his wife's chair upright again, then turned to Guerrero. "We forced her to have an abortion. Shortly after she ran off. Only now, six months ago, we managed to locate her. With that sect."

"You put your daughter through a severe onslaught on her body and mind and now you're riding to the rescue…" Guerrero's voice was very matter-of-factly. "Are you trying to save your daughter or relieve your bad conscience?"

"Maybe they're sorry and want to make up for their deed!", Ilsa, unable to hold back any longer, snarled.

"Which part of "radio silence" didn't you get, boss?"

"And what are you going to do if I don't shut up? Slit my throat?" Ilsa was so agitated, now she jumped up from her chair.

Both clients were totally confused by this sudden outbreak. "Did she just say "slit my throat"?", the wife asked her husband.

"It's a code phrase", Winston quickly told them.

At this very moment, Chance got up.

Everybody froze.

"Where are you going?", Winston asked.

"There's a woman who needs our help."


	60. Chapter 60

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"Now, hang on…" Winston put down his coffee and was just about to protest vehemently, when Guerrero already voiced what he thought:

"You're sending _Ilsa_ in there, alone?"

"Any better ideas? Arthemio doesn't want men in the fold. Ilsa is the only option we…" Chance left the sentence hanging in mid-air, knowing full what was coming next.

"And whose fault is that, dude?"

In the end they nevertheless had no other option than sending Ilsa.

She made first contact with one of the sect's recruiters the same evening. Given her momentary state of mind, showing all signs of a lost soul didn't pose much of a problem. She was still puzzled by Ames' decision to leave and her explanation. Why in the world couldn't she be around Chance anymore?

Seemingly shy she approached one of the group's information booths in a busy shopping mall. Avoiding eye contact, she cautiously looked at the brochures that were on display.

"Can I help you?", a woman with a pony tail asked her, smiling warmly.

"Don't think so", Ilsa mumbled, talking to the floor.

"You look like you've got a lot on your mind. Sometimes talking can help..."

Ilsa played hard-to-get a couple of minutes more, then she agreed to a cup of coffee with ponytail woman.

Guerrero, meanwhile, managed to hack into a military satellite. What he found called for some serious planning – this extraction was going to be a hell of a ride…

"The farm is heavily fortified", he told Ilsa and the others when she came back from the "noncommittal" coffee chat with the sect's recruiter.

"Barbed wire fences, thick walls, road spike systems… Our real problem, however, is the electronic security system – surveillance cams, infrared motion detectors AND a very intense jammer. The earpieces won't work on the compounds." Winston didn't even try to hide the worry in his tone. This was going to be dangerous.

"We're going to be in the vicinity and keep an eye on you as close as possible." Chance handed Ilsa a rather thick pen. "This is a flare gun for emergencies. Remove the cap, unscrew the upper part, hold it as far from your body as possible and push the green button. Do not fire it inside a building."

"I'm not _that_ stupid", Ilsa snapped.

"Just a piece of advice!"

"Save it for something more complicated than "Don't fire a flare gun where nobody can see it!"

Winston massaged his forehead.

"When the kids turn teenagers…" Guerrero muttered.

"This is the plan, Ilsa: You get yourself an invitation to the farm, find out who and where Lindsay is and, under a pretext, coax her out to the chicken-house as soon as possible." Winston showed her the location of the chicken-house on one of the satellite photos. "We've found a weak spot in the security measures there and we'll keep it under intense watch. As soon as we spot you moving towards there, Chance and Guerrero will get ready to jump Lindsay, sedate her and get you and her out of there. The flaw in the security system allows us a time window of about two minutes."

"What will happen to Lindsay afterwards?" Ilsa was upset about handing her back to her parents. What they had done to her…

"I know a good deprogrammer."

Winston rolled his eyes in a _You don't say_…-expression.

… … …

Five days later Ilsa lay on a hard cot in a drafty shed and wondered what in the world could make anyone deliberately choose such a life. It wasn't that she had witnessed any kind of violent act in the past two and a half days she was now on the farm – so far no branding, no corporal punishment, no public humiliation, no signs of sexual abuse. But the food! The so-called bathrooms! The sleeping conditions! The hard work on the farm's grounds! The lack of sleep! And the hours of Arthemio's rambling over the loudspeakers – aliens, evolution, predestination… Ilsa felt the urge to force one of the speakers down his throat by now.

But these women?

They followed Arthemio everywhere, practically worshipped the ground he was walking on. He had gotten himself a harem of willing sheep.

The problem was, the sheep were happy. Finding Lindsay hadn't posed much of a problem, but to Ilsa's great surprise she looked content. Brainwashed, but content. At peace with herself. Probably more at peace with herself than she would ever be back in the real world. The thought kept Ilsa awake at night – did they really have the right to take her away from here? By force? Put her through the ordeal of a deprogramming process? So far they had no evidence that Arthemio was really hurting his women… She needed to find out how free the women were to leave, if they wanted to…

Outside, Ilsa could hear voices. A woman complained that part of the security cams had broken down again. Ilsa smiled. That was Guerrero, tampering with the alert system, trying to open them a larger time frame to get Lindsay out.

"The inner yard won't be covered for at least an hour", she heard the woman say. "Julie, help Eve with the transformer."

Eve wasn't too happy: "But then nobody is watching the yard."

"It's four o'clock in the morning. Everyone's asleep especially with the upcoming work on the potato fields Arthemio spoke about during lunch. Go and help Julie, she needs every hand."

Now, that was interesting. The inner yard was a rather heavily protected area, nobody was allowed to go there. With the cams out of order and no guard… For about the hundredth time Ilsa wished the earpieces would be working. She could really need some guidance here. But on the other hand… She could easily imagine what Chance would say – "No, Ilsa, no! We do the snooping around, you focus on Lindsay!" Because, of course, he still thought her to be too stupid to watch out for herself.

Bloody protection complex of his.

Sleeping with him, of course, hadn't exactly helped to cure it.

The memory of her bloody blunder was the straw that broke the camel's back. She quietly rolled out of bed and sneaked out of the shed, towards the inner yard.

Everything was eerily silent.

Good. So she'd hear any approaching footsteps.

Three barns surrounded the inner yard. The first one was unlocked – food supplies. Must be Arthemio's private stash for this was the really good stuff, wine, cookies, cheese, ham. Ilsa had to fight the urge to grab something. Her stomach started grumbling loudly. Great, sounding like a pissed off junkyard dog there was no chance she could hide, should Eve come back. The safest thing was going back to the shed. But on the other hand – when would she ever get the opportunity to look into the inner yard again?

Ilsa continued to the next barn. It was unlocked, too, and contained a beautiful classic Cabriolet. Not bad for a poor alien…

The third barn was locked. Well, what had Ames taught Ilsa lock-picking for? The thought of Ames gave Ilsa another pang of guilt. That Chance reference in her note…after she had slept with him… Was there a connection? But what kind? Forcing herself to focus, she quickly took out the bobby pin she had hidden inside her sleeve.

Now, come on, she had practiced this a million times…

There…

The door swung open. Of course Ilsa couldn't switch on the lamps on the ceiling, but Guerrero had provided her with a second pen that contained a flashlight. Cautiously she let it wander inside the building. What was that? Was that a…? Whoa… She stopped and stared at the massive structure in the middle of the barn. Wacky or not, this was impressive.

Then she let her flashlight wander to the right.

She stopped again, this time in mid-motion. Frozen to the spot she stared at the small area illuminated by the dim white light.

Good Lord.


	61. Chapter 61

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Ilsa didn't stand frozen for long, however. Soft footsteps on the concrete outside very quickly roused her from her shell-shocked state. Straining every muscle in her body, she listened to the barely audible patter.

After a couple of seconds she relaxed, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Thankfully whoever was walking around at this time of night wasn't heading here.

For a brief moment Ilsa considered checking out who was up and about that early. It couldn't be the returning guards, their steps sounded differently. But the safest thing would be to hide till whoever had passed and then quickly get back into the shed. She decided she had been brave enough for one night. Come the morning she would have to find a way to contact the others – she needed to think this through.

Quite proud of herself that she was able to move so quietly, she made her way back to the shed. In her now rather exhausted state the hard cot did look quite inviting after all. She was tempted to immediately slip underneath the scratchy blanket and sleep for another hour. But Guerrero had taught her to always check her environment and so she did a quick headcount of the sleeping forms around her.

Everyone was sound asleep – Maggie, Sally, Lucy, Lindsay… Lindsay? LINDSAY?

Her cot was empty!

For the second time this night, Ilsa stopped dead in her tracks. Where the hell was…? Oh no! She suddenly remembered a conversation she had overheard during lunch… Lindsay was taking care of a sick cat. The cat needed medicine every couple of hours. And she had accommodated it in… oh bloody hell!

Throwing all caution aside, Ilsa raced out the shed, into the darkness again. Half-way to the chicken-house, she caught up with Lindsay.

"Lindsay! Lindsay! Wait a minute!"

Thank God, Lindsay stopped and turned around, friendly smile on her face. "Wow, you are up early! Everything okay?"

Ilsa, breathless, came to a gasping halt by Lindsay's side. "Oh, yes, absolutely, everything is fine, I just… I just… isn't it a bit eerie, walking around here so alone? Why don't you give me the medicine, I'll take care of the patient and you can have a couple of more hours of sleep."

Lindsay was definitely surprised by Ilsa's sudden offer. "That's really kind of you, but now that I'm already up… why don't you go with me? Caspar loves visitors!"

"You're supposed to work on the potato field, aren't you? That's so much hard work, you need all the rest you can get", Ilsa insisted. To her great dismay, however, Lindsay didn't even stop walking. They were getting closer and closer to the chicken-house. Heavens! Chance and Guerrero were probably already hiding… there – a whisper in the leaves, a subtle brush of the grass…

Ilsa made a decision.

"Lindsay…", she called and took a deep breath to continue with an announcement that would surely surprise Chance and Guerrero… and probably make them mad as hell.

However, she never managed to continue, as Chance and Guerrero suddenly came breaking through a bush.

"RUN LINDSAY! RUN!", she yelled. Now, this earned her a puzzled look from the men!

Anyway, they didn't have much time staring at each other since Ilsa kept shouting at the top of her lungs, Lindsay, of course, shouted, too, the time window for the alert system was slowly closing AND Ilsa was running towards them, swinging a branch she had picked up from the ground.

The men dashed forward. Chance grabbed the vehemently scratching and biting Lindsay and Guerrero stepped into Ilsa's way. Although Chance was trying to muffle her screams, she was still loud enough so that Ilsa could risk trying to tell Guerrero what was going on – as briefly as possible. She managed to murmur a couple of words, "Trust me!", being the last two.

Then suddenly the shouts of the guards could be heard in the distance, rapidly closing in. Ilsa swung the branch at Guerrero and he seemingly took the blow, stumbling towards Chance and Lindsay. Ilsa swung again, and then around them arrows began to whirr.

Yes, arrows. The guards were equipped with arrows. Hey, they hadn't an arrow, shot at the sky, in their emblem for nothing!

"Let go of her! Let go of her!", Ilsa shouted, trying to look as convincing as possible while hitting the men blindly with her branch, hoping they'd be able to block off the blows and protect themselves.

Piece of cake. The arrows posed a much bigger problem.

Guerrero tapped against Chance's leg, their signal for retreat. With a look of total bewilderment on his face, Chance let go of Lindsay. This was totally against everything they had agreed upon! But whatever Ilsa had told Guerrero, she had obviously persuaded him. Chance could accept that - Guerrero always knew what he was doing. Both men turned around and headed for the fence. Their time window would close in a couple of seconds, then the fence would be current-carrying again. Quickly they climbed upwards.

Then it happened.

An arrow whizzed past Ilsa's ear, flew straight forward… and got stuck in Chance's shoulder. Searing pain shot through his arm, it gave way immediately, he crashed to the ground, crying out in pain. Ilsa thought her stomach would turn over – the fall had looked dangerous. But then she realized that if…

She ran to Chance's side… and started beating him with the branch again.

"Chinese room!", she shouted at Guerrero, who was on the verge of grabbing Chance and trying to somehow get him over the fence before the guards could catch them. Thankfully Lindsay was out of hearing range, but nevertheless they couldn't waste time on long explanations. All Ilsa could do was hope Guerrero would understand what she was hinting at.

He stared at her, incredulously.

"Chinese room!", she repeated.

Slowly nodding, he retreated, climbed over the fence and hit the ground on the other side just in time before the time window closed.

A second later the guards were by Ilsa's side and apprehended Chance.

Problem was, Arthemio was not on the premises to give them orders. He was gone for the night and would only come back in a couple of hours. The women were rather at a loss at what to do with their prisoner.

"Maybe we should call the police?", Julie suggested.

"I can't reach him on his cell." Eve showed clear signs of nervousness. What was the right thing to do in this situation?

Chance, meanwhile, was lying curled up on the ground, the damn arrow still protruding from his shoulder. He didn't even need to pretend that he was in pain. Every nerve and muscle in his arm and upper back were screaming alarm. He hated arrows. Oh boy, did he hate arrows.

"I'm a trained nurse", Ilsa told them. "His wound needs to be treated and I can sedate him so that we can easily keep him till Arthemio arrives."

They actually bought that.

The farm had a small treatment room and a couple of minutes later Ilsa found herself faced with the challenge of injecting Chance with what was supposed to be a sedative while he was being held down by several of the guards. Luckily they stored vitamin c for intravenous treatment. But Ilsa had never ever injected anyone with anything…

Chance had no trouble pretending he was getting weaker. With a grunt he allowed his muscles to gradually relax, first the upper part of his body, then the lower regions, thus getting heavier and heavier, till they couldn't hold him up anymore and had to lower him onto the gurney. "I'll manage the rest alone", Ilsa told the guards.

"Are you okay? Are you okay?", she hectically whispered the second they had closed the door behind their backs.

Chance didn't react.

"Chance!" Ilsa tentatively touched his shoulder – the arrow was still stuck in it and she didn't want to hurt him any further.

All of a sudden his hand shot forward and he grabbed her wrist. "First thing we do when we get back to the office, you learn how to inject somebody! And now tell me WHAT THE HELL is going on!"


	62. Chapter 62

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Jackattack! What a pleasant surprise, I thought I'd lost you! **_

"WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?" Winston started shouting at Guerrero even before he had entered the van completely.

"Let her rip, dude!"

"WHERE'S CHANCE? I'M GOING NOWHERE WITHOUT…"

"Dude! We got to get outta here!"

Sirens from the direction of the farm's premises started wailing. Bright floodlights illuminated the night sky.

Cursing, Winston started the engine and raced off with spinning wheels.

… … …

"Ilsa told me four things while we were fighting", Guerrero finished his account of the events by the chicken-house. They had made it back to the hunter's cabin where they had set up camp, apparently without being followed. "Pancuronium, David Strutcon, Geminids and later Chinese Room."

"Have they given her something? Might she be under the influence of a drug?"

Guerrero shook his head and switched on his laptop. "She's perfectly sound. Did some quick thinking…" He started typing.

Winston frowned. There was something about Guerrero's statement that was odd… the way he had talked about Ilsa… his tone… tinged with a hint of… _fondness_? Uh-oh, Guerrero liking Ilsa? And Chance had, for all Winston knew…

Good lord, what a mess.

"Pancuronium is a muscle relaxant. It paralyzes the skeletal striated muscles, the diaphragm and the rest of the respiratory muscles and leads to death by asphyxiation. They used it for the Needle in Ohio before they changed to sodium thiopental and Midazolam." Guerrero was still typing on his computer.

"But why should she…?"

"David Strutcon is a famous psychologist, specializing in collective hysteria and cults. He did extensive research on the Jonestown poisonings and the Waco siege…" Guerrero looked up and arched an eyebrow at Winston in a _"Make more sense now?"_-expression.

Winston, however, was still puzzled.

"Dude explained that dangerous cults are either offensively violent or defensively violent. Defensively violent cults built enclaves that they protect with everything they got … barbed wire fences, thick walls, road spike system, surveillance cams, infrared motion detectors, a very intense jammer… sound familiar?"

"Yeah, the Children of Arturius are a defensively violent cult, I got it." Winston tried to get a better view of Guerrero's screen. Guerrero made no attempt to help him.

"They are very likely to violently defend their premises by all means necessary. That's what happened in Waco."

"But Geminids? And Chinese Room? How does that all go together?" Back when he had started working with Chance, Winston had had major trouble learning to decipher the abbreviated way of communication he insisted they should use when on jobs. Could it really be that Ilsa, of all people, had mastered it so much faster?

"The Geminids are a meteor shower, due to become visible here in the early morning hours of tomorrow. Chinese Room is a mathematical experiment that basically consists of two persons, one pretending, with the help of a computer, to speak Chinese, the other one not noticing because they're in an enclosed space, but separated from each other. Got it?"

"Have _you_ taken anything?" Winston thundered.

"Ilsa was trying to tell us that the cult is planning a mass suicide when the Geminids show up. By taking Lindsay away we might have triggered that suicide faster. We cannot call help or interfere cause that might lead to a violent reaction of the sect members – just like in the Chinese room, we need to leave the solution to Chance and Ilsa, because they're inside. Dude, seriously…"

Winston was just about to give Guerrero a reply of the yelling kind, when Guerrero's computer bleeped. Guerrero checked the data he had just downloaded… checked it again…

"Dude, we've got a problem…"

… … …

Ilsa counted the small bottles in the drawer again. "Are you sure that's enough?", she asked Chance.

"Should be sufficient to send the whole lot to sleep. The tricky part is to switch this harmless stuff with the Pancuronium. We've only got a couple of hours till the Geminids arrive… Are you really sure it's got something to do with them?" He was doing his best to hide how much pain the damn arrow was causing him, but his voice was a lot more hoarse then usual and it was getting worse.

"They have Castor and Pollux painted on the outside of the spaceship Arthemio is hiding in the barn." Ilsa interpreted Chance's expression as doubt and continued a little piqued: "Greek mythology was a subject in my O-levels. They probably want to take the Pancuronium on board, thinking the Geminids might then take them away with them… I read something about the power of the Geminids on that website of theirs…"

Chance nodded. "So here's the plan. I distract them with an escape attempt, you switch the substances. But first we need to remove the damn arrow."

"Can't you just let it be where it is?"

Chance's expression spoke volumes: _"Are you kidding me?"_

"I'll yank it out then." Ilsa reached for the shaft protruding from Chance's back. Chance quickly jumped off the gurney he'd been sitting on. Ilsa grabbed thin air.

"What? You said…"

"Pulling out the shaft would most likely leave the arrowhead in the wound!" Chance cautiously sat down again. He was starting to feel dizzy from the pain. "We've got to push it on through and out the other side."

Ilsa froze for a moment. Completely. Not a muscle moving. Then:

"GAAAAAAH!"

"Ilsa… Ilsa shhhh…." Chance took her hand. Ilsa froze again. This was the first time he was touching her since Loch Ceiteirein, but nobody thought of that at the moment. What he was asking of her overshadowed everything else. Ilsa's face had lost all color. She looked like she was about to faint.

"Ilsa come on… We'll surely find some Lidocaine around here and it won't be that bad." He gently squeezed her hand. Despite everything that had happened between them… all the tension, all the unresolved issues… his touch still had the same effect it had had on her after she had shot Hector Lopez. Suddenly she could breathe again.

"It'll be alright. I can take it. You know I can take it." His voice was barely audible. "I'd do it myself, but I can't reach the shaft. You've got to help me here."

Nodding slowly, Ilsa came to life again. Slightly swaying, she went to find the Lidocaine. A few moments later she came back with a syringe.

Chance looked at Ilsa. Looked at the syringe's long needle. Looked some more … and extended his left hand. "I'll do the injection myself."

"But doesn't the splint…and it's not even your good hand..."

"I'll manage…"


	63. Chapter 63

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"What problem?", Winston asked Guerrero.

"Remember what I said about Waco and defensive violence?" Guerrero read the message again.

"Yes, wiseass, I do. And FYI, I've sat through seminars on Waco. Whole weekends went down the drain to analyze that fiasco!" Winston rolled his eyes."The Davidians fought so fiercely because they interpreted the conflict with the FBI as an apocalyptical final stand. FBI didn't understand that, they treated them as a gang of criminals and used methods on them that would have worked on criminals."

"Good to know my tax payer's money wasn't wasted."

"So what the hell is the problem?" Winston was losing his patience fast. Chance was hurt, still no Lindsay, a whole bunch of people would throw their lives away in a couple of hours. How much worse could it get?

"Guess who's planning to carry out a search warrant against the Children of Arturius this afternoon?"

There you go...

... ... ...

"The key in this, Ilsa, is speed. You take the shaft and push it forward as fast as you can, with as much force as you can. Don't stop before the head has broken through my skin completely. Only then we can cut the arrowhead off. Hesitate and you'll hurt me." Chance took a deep breath and braced himself for the pain that would, despite the Lidocaine, inevitably come.

Ilsa, however, didn't move. She kept staring at the bloody shaft protruding from Chance's shoulder. Pulling it out, she would have managed that. But pushing it further through? It seemed so wrong, breaking his skin, opening it from the inside... her stomach churned.

"Ilsa, an arrow that weighs approximately 350 grains, driven at 275 fps, leads to 58.8 foot lbs of impact energy. That's a hell of an impact. The arrow is almost through already. All you need to do is give it a quick push."

She still didn't move. The idea of inflicting that much pain on him...

"Ilsa! This is torture! Get your act together!"

This time she jumped. All of a sudden his voice had changed from soft and soothing to sharp and demanding. The look on his face, for lack of a better word, was fierce – she had seen this before, when dealing with thugs or Joubert. But he had never used it on her…

Something in Ilsa clicked. She had to do this. There was no other way.

Mustering up all courage that she had, she grabbed the shaft and gave it her hardest thrust.

… … …

"Dude, make it happen or I'll make something happen. It's as easy as that. I'm sure your father-in-law will read the e-mail with great interest." Guerrero cut the connection and tucked his cell phone away.

"Will it work?", Winston asked. "Will he be able to postpone the warrant's execution?"

"His father-in-law got him his current, very comfy position within the FBI. He could transfer his ass to Alaska. Dude is very aware of that…"

"Is there any place in the world where you don't blackmail anyone?" Winston expected a wiseass reply, as usual, but Guerrero didn't answer at all, he just snorted dismissively and opened another window on his computer screen.

"What is it? What's bugging you?"

Guerrero turned around and looked Winston straight in the eyes. "Dude and I had an agreement – he paid me a reasonable monthly sum, I kept his little secret safe. Me suddenly changing the rules, pressurizing him into something that wasn't part of our original agreement, that's unprofessional."

Now it was Winston's turn to snort. "Unprofessional! You're talking about blackmailing here!"

"Just because it's illegal doesn't mean there are no rules."

Guerrero's cell phone rang. Their FBI guy.

… … …

"You didn't say anything about that!"

_And for good reason_, Chance thought. "Ilsa, five minutes ago you were all over pulling the shaft out from behind. Now that we've got the arrowhead removed you can do exactly that."

"That was before you made me push the damn thing halfway through your chest!" Ilsa grabbed the edge of the gurney to steady herself.

"You're not going to faint now, are you? Seriously, Ilsa, _I'm _the one with the arrow through the shoulder. Could you PLEASE finish what you started so that we can finally go on? It's not that we have a couple of future suicides here who don't want to miss their ride on tonight's meteor shower!"

"Don't you dare go all ironic on me! You and your superior "I'm a professional"-attitude…" She grabbed the piece of arrow that was still sticking out Chance's back and yanked it out with one fluid movement. Chance cried out in pain and slumped forward. Ilsa dropped the arrow to the floor, grabbed him and held him upright in a strong embrace.

"You made me angry on purpose, didn't you?", she asked quietly, face pressed against his back. She held him tight till his breathing slowly normalized and his shivers subsided.

None of the two thought of the last time they had shared such intimate contact.

"You did well, Ilsa", Chance whispered. "Now here's the plan."

… … …

Manipulating the security system from inside the farm was a lot easier than from the outside. Luckily Ilsa had managed to determine the position of the main fuse box during one of her scouting expeditions. Of course, concentrating on a bunch of cables and causing blips in the security feed, just enough to make the guards nervous but not enough to alert them, wasn't easy with a throbbing shoulder wound. The half-healed wrist wasn't too fond of all the action either. But this time Ilsa's job was a lot more dangerous. If anyone found her in the barn…

Chance would have preferred doing the switch for her, but with all his injuries his hands were simply too unsteady. What if he dropped one of the bottles? The risk was too high. Aside from that, _he_ knew what to do with all the cables, but Ilsa? So while he kept the guards busy with all sorts of technical "errors", she was over at the barn, making sure the Children would take the comparatively harmless sedative they had found in the treatment room instead of the Pancuronium.

They had figured it would take Ilsa about twenty minutes to get everything done. If in these twenty minutes anyone paid the treatment room a visit to check on Ilsa and her "prisoner"… It was a damn risky plan they had devised. And aside from that, Ilsa was running late – almost thirty minutes had passed since they had parted… Chance was getting nervous. He wouldn't be able to produce these blips indefinitely. Sooner or later they'd figure out the problem was with the main fuse box. But Ilsa worried him a lot more. He strained to hear what was going on outside.

The patter of feet. Laughter. One of Arthemio's speeches via loudspeaker. No shouting, no signs of a struggle going on somewhere. It didn't sound as if someone had discovered her. On the contrary, everything was growing more and more silent with the approaching night. But what if the guards were discreet? What if they had gotten her and bundled her up somewhere or…

"Chance…"

Ilsa, hiding in the longer-growing shadows.

"What took you so long?", he snapped at her.

Together they headed back to the treatment room.

Just in time.

Two minutes later, they had a visitor. Arthemio himself was taking a good look at his "sedated" prisoner. It was ridiculous. With his odd ranger clothes he looked like he had just escaped the Battle of Helm's Deep.

"You removed the arrow", he told Ilsa.

"Intruder or not, the arrow could have caused an infection", she explained.

"Not bad for a billionaire with no medical training."

It took Ilsa a moment before she realized what he had just said.

Oh damn, her cover was blown.

The two guards by his side, however, needed nothing more than this short moment to throw Ilsa down and handcuff her.

"Consider this your lucky day, Mrs. Pucci", Arthemio said. "Whatever you were planning with your friend here, as interesting as it might have been to find out, my branding iron stays cold tonight. There's a ride to catch I don't want to miss."

And with that he left her and Chance, both cuffed now at hand and feet, alone, heading for the barn. The Geminids were getting closer.

The second Arthemio was out the door, Chance started smiling.

"I just got pushed to the floor and cuffed, hand and foot no less! What's so funny about that?"

"We've made it, Ilsa. They're going to take the sedative now. All that's left for us to do now is wait a little, find a way outside and fire the flare gun." Because they couldn't be sure how the sedative would affect the individual sect members, they decided to postpone picking the handcuffs and concentrate on getting help first. Chance managed to break a window so he could reach outside and fire the gun at the night sky.

A red light outshone the Geminids for a moment.

They expected Winston and Guerrero to show up a couple of minutes later, free them and then call the cops and a couple of ambulances to take care of the Children.

When five minutes later all hell broke loose and – judging from the noises they could hear outside – law enforcement units practically swamped the place, no one was more surprised than these two. An Aunt Linda? What the hell had Guerrero been thinking? The last thing they needed were Feds catching sight of Chance! And Ilsa's name in connection with all this was not terribly desirable either.

Suddenly the door to the treatment room was yanked open. An FBI agent quickly stepped in: "Mr. Chance? Mrs. Pucci? Mr. Guerrero sent me. He located you through the flare gun signal. I've parked my vehicle right behind the building. Get into the trunk, I'll get you out before anyone starts asking too many questions!"

… … …

So, still cuffed, they ended up wedged into an SUV's trunk. The ride took quite a while, surprisingly long, actually. Once the engine stopped briefly, but then the car drove on. When they finally halted, after what seemed like an eternity, they heard footsteps outside and Chance knew the brief stop had been for a change of the driver. A characteristic knock on the trunk's lid confirmed his assumption.

"Everything okay?" Guerrero's voice.

"We're fine!" Chance couldn't help but smile, hearing his friend at the end of this ordeal. "Open the trunk!"

"Not yet. The coast still isn't clear." Guerrero paused for a moment, then: "Maybe you can tell Ilsa what Ames told you at the Loch, after the explosion… just to pass the time."

"_Ames at the Loch?_ What happened?"

Ilsa was immediately alert and it dawned on Chance that even with all his assassin training, the way he was cuffed and wedged into this trunk left him in quite a vulnerable position with a billionaire who could kick like a mule if she had to.

Guerrero couldn't hear what exactly Chance told Ilsa, but he heard her enraged outcry and then Chance's muffled voice: "Ilsa, you don't want to hurt me, you've only just patched my shoulder up!"

"Well, there are parts of you that are definitely not hurt - YET!"

Guerrero allowed himself a smile as he walked away from the car to take a stroll.


	64. New York, Rio, Tokyo

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ New York, Rio, Tokyo ~**_

"You know, I couldn't care less if you managed to decapitate yourself, but seriously, an _arrow_? Wasn't the broken wrist enough? What are you planning next, a spiked mace to the leg?"

Dr. Grace was on a roll.

"Are you on some kind of self-mortification trip? Heavens, Chance, a few more inches to the left and it would have been your heart."

Chance shrugged. He wasn't much in talking mood.

"And whoever gave you that vitamin C injection should apply for a position at the slaughterhouse!"

Chance sighed, waited the rest of Dr. Grace's rant out, grabbed his medicine and headed home.

"Home" to the empty warehouse…

Carmine greeted him, but nevertheless the silence of the building felt suffocating. A drink would probably have eased the heaviness of it all, but scotch and antibiotics didn't mix well. Tired and weary, Chance slumped down on his sofa. He switched on the TV, but despite the more than one hundred different programs, it provided little distraction. He switched it off again.

The afternoon crawled past, with not a single telephone call, no text message, nothing. The bandage around Chance's shoulder felt somewhat soaked and he would have to change it soon, but although he was bored to death, he couldn't bring himself to get up and walk over to the bathroom to get his equipment.

Suddenly the alert system gave a short beep. From his living-room Chance could see the huge monitors in the conference room. Ilsa was riding upstairs in the elevator.

Soon enough she stepped out of it and headed straight for Chance's living-quarters. He quickly changed position – no, he hadn't watched her via surveillance cam the whole time while she had been in the elevator. Why should he?

"I don't need to be checked on, I'm fine, thank you", he greeted her grumpily as she crossed the threshold to his living-room.

"Actually I'm not checking on you", she snapped back. "I received a message from Guerrero. He asked me to hand you this." Walking over to where he sat in well-measured, proud and very upright steps, she put down a small white card in front of him.

Chance frowned. "What is it?"

"Information where you can find Ames."

"He gave it to you? He made you his errand girl?" The hint of a smile flitted across Chance's face.

"He said he's got a meeting." Ilsa paused, trying not to speculate about the exact nature of that meeting, then: "It's his way of saying he has forgiven us, isn't it?"

Chance nodded. "He's had his revenge."

"So, are you going to look for her?"

His face darkened and he looked away. He even rounded his shoulders a bit, completing the impression of a massive block, impenetrable. But of course Ilsa didn't even think of letting the matter drop.

"She isn't interested in me or Winston or Guerrero coming for her. You're the only one who can fix this, Chance."

By now Chance's face had become the unreadable mask he had worn during the Philippa incident. God, how she hated that face!

"Are you still not done with mortifying yourself? You had me push an arrow through your chest, for heaven's sake! Don't you think it's time to finally stop wallowing in your guilt? Clean up the mess you caused!" Angrily, Ilsa proceeded to stomp out of the room.

"Ilsa."

She hovered at the threshold.

"I could use some help with changing the bandage."

Slowly nodding, she walked back to him. Her fingers were slightly trembling when she removed his shirt. This time the memories of the night in Scotland didn't remain hidden under the surface. His skin felt warm to her touch and a soft shiver ran down her spine. Most of what they had done that night was kind of blurred in her mind, but her body remembered very well.

With one determined move, she tore off the band-aid on his back.

"OUCH! ILSA!"

"What, an arrow through the shoulder is no big deal, but a torn off band aid is?"

"You've got all the sensitivity of a hippopotamus in London zoo!"

… … …

Listening to Ilsa and Chance bicker through one of the microphones he had hidden in the office, Guerrero nodded contently. Then a car appeared in the distance, flashed its headlights once and made a U-turn. He turned off the radio feed, switched on the engine and followed the vehicle with his own.

The Triads liked meetings at the waterfront. Shorter distance to carry a body, should the need arise, Guerrero guessed. Well, as far as he knew there was no need to be overly concerned tonight. He and the Triads had no beef.

The local Triad branch boss was waiting for him at a table in the bare backroom of a decrepit warehouse. His bodyguards were waiting outside – apparently he wasn't overly concerned about meeting Guerrero, too. Of course he was armed, the gun strapped to his back was hard to miss, but all in all this seemed to be meant as a friendly meeting. "The Irish cop, Grace O'Malley…", he began after offering Guerrero a warmed shaojiu.

Guerrero accepted the beverage and downed it straight away, partly to hide his surprise. This was about that cop? Would that issue never leave him alone?

"The hit was carried out by one of our killers, but not at our request. He did a little side business. We were not too fond of that." The branch boss let the sentence sink in.

"What does that have to do with me?" It was a serious question. Guerrero honestly had no idea why they had contacted him – did they want him to take care of that killer? The Triads knew he wasn't in the assassin business anymore. Aside from that they had their own people for that kind of work, there was no need to outsorce it.

"He didn't want to tell us who hired him and we couldn't get it out of him – the man in charge of that interrogation was a bit inexperienced and things came to an end a little too quickly… anyway, we found this in his possession…." The boss reached into his pocket and retrieved a small white envelope. He put it on the table and pushed it over to Guerrero. The white paper was soiled with bloody fingerprints. "Guerrero" was written in its center, a thin, fleeting handwriting he had never seen before.

"It belonged to the cop. Apparently she wanted you to have it. Our man was supposed to deliver it to his client."

"And you're handing it over to me just like that?" Guerrero didn't touch the envelope.

"A Triad killer who knew exactly what was waiting for him was willing to endure Triad torture, so afraid was he to give up the name of his client… Whatever this is, it's big. We don't want anything to do with it."

Guerrero understood. They were cleaning out their closet. No loose ends on their side, nothing that could come back and bite them in the ass. He had no choice but to take the envelope. Wordlessly he got up, grabbed it, stuffed it into his vest pocket and left.

Only after he had put a significant distance between him and the warehouse, he pulled his car over, retrieved the envelope and opened it. Out fell a small metal key.

… … …

While Guerrero contemplated the possible consequences of using a key that once belonged to a murdered woman, Winston, pouring over the file on Guerrero's father, was trying to make sense of what at first had seemed like minor observations. Was he imagining this? The points that didn't sit with him were so insignificant, so miniscule… why bother?

Because this was about Guerrero, for heaven's sake. Because this was about Guerrero.

Somewhere behind his back, Leonard snorted triumphantly.

Ignoring his personal Poltergeist as well as possible, Winston reached for his phone and dialed. "Peale? It's Winston. Look, I know it's a lot to ask, but the copy of that file you've given us… I need to take a look at the original."

After some back and forth with Peale that ended with the Lieutenant's grumbling agreement, Winston dialed another number. "University of Berkeley? Listen, whom do I have to talk to if I have a question regarding linguistics?


	65. Chapter 65

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"I really don't want to sound like a prejudiced idiot, but this is plain ugly." Chance took a step closer to the giant painting that occupied a whole wall of the exclusive NY gallery Ames apparently was planning to steal from.

As he bent over, his shoulder protested and he winced slightly from the sudden onslaught of pain. Then he took a look at the price tag and whistled. "Seriously? 25.000 dollar for something that looks like Carmine could produce it if I let him play with green and yellow wall color?"

No reaction.

"And this one over there…" Chance walked over to another painting, even bigger than the first one. "Painted pasta? The artist painted different types of pasta and arranged them as a mosaic? Did his mother never tell him that food is for eating, not to play with? We should never let Guerrero in here, don't think the paint would stop him… we might end up owing the gallery… 32.000 dollar?"

Still no reaction.

Chance was pretty sure Ames was here. First of all, Guerrero's information tended to be very accurate, second, the gallery's security system was turned off, he had been able to simply walk in here, no messing with the locks or the key pads, nothing. Open house at two o'clock in the morning. Somebody must have turned it off.

"Apparently there are people out there who feel they've got too much money on their bank account… or maybe they really see this as art… I'm sure Ilsa could give us a lecture or two on this… should never let her in here, too, the way she redecorated the office is bad enough already… at least she seems to have gotten rid of these ridiculous white glass pears she used to keep on her desk. They look a lot better in black and gray, if you ask me…"

Silence kept on reigning. Chance strained his ears. Not a single sound that indicated where she was. If he at least had an idea what she was after…

"Well, back to the problem at hand. As I said, there might be people actually willing to pay money for one of these pieces of… you know… well… pieces of. BUT on the legal market. The _black_ market follows a totally different set of rules and I'm not sure you're aware of all of them. Rule number one, the more recognizable something is, the more difficult is it to find a buyer. Trying to get rid of Pablo Penne Rigate's noodle collection…" he nodded towards the pasta mosaic again "…might pose a problem in that regard…"

Silence. Iron, icy-cold silence.

"Rule number two, the more permanent value an object has, the easier to find a buyer. Sorry, but again, you fail here. Some artsy billionaire inheritor might be willing to throw 32.000 dollar out the window for painted Italian durum wheat right now, but at the end of the day it stays just that – painted Italian durum wheat… I'm just saying…"

Chance rolled his eyes. Still no sign of her. Usually Ames hated it when someone lectured her. Okay, apparently he had to turn up the volume a little more.

"And aside from these factors, how in the world are you planning to transport whatever you're after here? I mean, so far I haven't seen a single painting that's smaller than wall-size. Unless you've stolen a truck, too, I don't see how you'll move even one of these things. You did notice we're on the 36th floor, didn't you?"

Chance walked into the next room and spotted a statuette on a pedestal. "Okay, now it makes more sense, you're not after a painting, you're aiming for something more handy, right?" He reached for the statuette, lifted it up…and almost dropped it. The damn thing weighed a ton! A searing pain shot from his shoulder down his spine.

His grunt was the only sound that disturbed the gallery's quietness. Damn it, she was really letting him dangle.

Time to haul out the big guns, he decided.

"I can't believe it took you less than a month to go back to your old ways, by the way. I actually thought you had learned something in the time with us. You know, that there is another way and all that stuff. You came across quite convincing when you swore to Ilsa you'd do your best not to screw up again. Now look at you – stealing again, as if you'd never been with us. Was it all for show, Ames?"

At this very moment, all the lights in the gallery went out at once.

Ah, finally. A reaction.

A second later, glowing beams of red light criss-crossed the room in a complicated pattern. The security system was back on again.

And Chance was facing a problem.

He had been standing right in the center of three intersecting beams when the system had been switched on again. Almost immediately a siren began to wail and all the gallery's steel security doors slammed shut, locks clicking automatically. There was no way he'd get out of here before the police arrived.

Great.

At least now he knew for sure. Ames was still pissed with him.


	66. Chapter 66

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"Trust me, Ilsa, you don't want to know." Absent-mindedly Winston dropped his keys and wallet on his desk, then, cell phone still pressed to his ear, walked on to the kitchen area. The office seemed empty. Ilsa was at home, getting ready for some sort of charity event, Chance was off chasing Ames and what Guerrero was doing Winston tried not to speculate about. Even Carmine was nowhere in sight.

"Chance is out of custody, with no paper trail leading back to him. NYPD's current commissioner was one of our very first clients. We did him a little favor back then and he was glad he could repay that with a little favor now." Winston paused for a moment, only half-listening to Ilsa's predictable reaction, torn between relief that Chance was okay and, although she had toned down that part significantly over the past year, indignation at their methods.

"He's off to South America now, according to Guerrero's information Ames is targeting a museum in Rio de Janeiro next." He opened the fridge. To his surprise the sandwiches he had left in there yesterday were untouched… or were they? He had wrapped them in tinfoil, ah, surely Guerrero had eaten them and then rearranged the foil so that it looked as if the sandwiches were still there. Typical.

"Enjoy the evening, Ilsa, and don't worry. Chance knows what he's doing." Grumbling, Winston switched his cell phone off, reached out to flatten the tinfoil – and squished his sandwiches. What the hell? Guerrero really hadn't eaten them! Was he sick or something?

"Welcome home, dude."

Winston jumped and wheeled around. Speak of the devil! There was Guerrero, sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of Scotch right next to him. How long had he been sitting there, watching him?

"Jeez, you want me to suffer a heart attack?"

Guerrero didn't bother replying. "While you were gone rescuing Chance's ass , a call came in."

Something about his tone made Winston's skin crawl. He was not talking loudly or overly aggressively, his voice remained level. But the way he was speaking… It was icy cold, menacing. Guerrero's face, of course, gave nothing specific away, but what Winston could easily decipher was that Guerrero was mightily angry.

"What call?", he asked cautiously.

"Berkeley. Linguistics department." Guerrero reached under the table and produced his father's file.

"You've broken into my desk again?" Winston knew the accusation wouldn't get through to him, he wasn't even really upset about it, picking the lock of a private drawer, hell, for Guerrero that was pretty much par for the course. But maybe accusing him would provoke an ironic reply, ease the tense atmosphere a little….

"Linguistics department said your assumption was correct."

Whoa, now that was interesting news. Unfortunately Winston had no time to really process it.

"So what was your assumption, Winston? Did you have the linguistics department analyze my father's letters to see if his serial-killing freak nature showed somewhere in his letters to my mother?"

Guerrero paused, but so briefly, Winston had no chance to reply and explain what he had done.

"It was too much to resist, wasn't it? The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to prove what you've assumed all along: That something is wrong with me."

"Guerrero, listen…", Winston tried to chime in, but he was fighting a losing battle.

"How often have you called me an animal, Winston? A psychopath? Well, my killer instinct came in handy when you had managed to poison yourself in Syria."

"That was…" Again Winston had no chance to get any further.

"You asked me to kill you, Winston! Would you have asked Chance the same? Sure as hell not. Never would you have burdened his conscience with such a request." Guerrero's voice was dripping with acid now. "_My_ conscience, on the other hand, was no concern to you. Now you know for sure that you asked the right person – by birth I don't have a conscience. My father didn't have one, so how could I have one?"

To Winston's utter astonishment, Guerrero emptied the bottle of Scotch over the file till the pages were drenched with alcohol. Then he got up.

"Stop sticking your nose into other people's business."

He walked to the threshold, wheeled around, drew his .45 – and shot at the file. Soaked with highly inflammable liquid, it burst into flames immediately.

"Heavens, Guerrero!" Winston grabbed a towel from the kitchen counter and dashed forward to extinguish the fire on the table before it could spread.

Shrugging, Guerrero proceeded to walk off.

Was that some sort of final good-bye gesture? First Ames, now Guerrero? Winston's stomach turned, and not because there was an open fire in the kitchen, quickly reducing the table to cinders. Damnit, no. He couldn't let that happen.

Guerrero was almost at the elevator when he heard Winston yell again: "Help me! Damn, Guerrero, help me!"

He hesitated. Winston was a big boy and the fire was manageable. He should be able to deal with it alone.

"GUERRERO!"

That was not Winston's usual demanding bark. He sounded… panicky? Guerrero headed back to the kitchen.

There Winston was, pretty much standing at the spot where he had been when Guerrero had left – with one significant difference: His arm was on fire.

"Dude!"

It didn't take Guerrero long to put out the flames, both on the table and on Winston. It took him even less time to see through that maneuver. "Dude, did you set yourself on fire to stop me from leaving?"

"Sit down on your amoral ass and finally listen to me, will you? "


	67. Chapter 67

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"You really did a number on me, that last go around. Well done. Good thing the commissioner still owed me one, though." Chance cautiously made his way through the museum's first floor - prehistoric animals. A stuffed mammoth glared at him ominously, its giant tusks gleaming in the dim light. The saber-tooth cat right next to it didn't look friendly either. Hell, even the giant ground sloth on its other side seemed to be frowning at his presence at this unholy hour of the night.

Chance, however, didn't pay their displeasure any attention. A tiny, barely audible noise, like something falling on a marble floor, followed by a muffled curse, drew him towards the staircase.

"So it's a museum this time, huh?", he said aloud. The second floor was dedicated to various aspects of world history - the French Revolution, the discovery of America, the crusades... "By the way, whatever you stole in that gallery, the owner didn't report it to the police. So it was a black sheep job, wasn't it? You were hired to steal something illegal, a piece of art the gallery owner can't report because he would incriminate himself. A forgery maybe, or looted art from the Nazis the rightful heirs shall not know about… Word of advice - these kind of jobs tend to go wrong. Steal from honest people and they call the police. Steal from criminals and they'll hire an assassin. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about."

He stopped at a guillotine, on display complete with a life-size puppet of Louis XVI , frozen in the moment where the former king reached the last step of the scaffold. "What do you want to steal here? I mean, nothing against the Rio de Janeiro Museum of World History, but it's not like they've got the crown jewels on display, is it?"

Another tiny noise, this time a brief scratching on the floor, led him back to the staircase. The low noise of a door above his level being closed very silently made him ascend to the next floor that was dedicated to contemporary Brazilian history. A rather detailed description of the country's long struggle for independence, both from formal and informal ties. "History is a strange thing, isn't it?", Chance mused, aloud again. "Sometimes things that happened centuries ago..." he paused briefly next to a portrait of Pedro Álvares Cabal "...or decades..." he moved on to a black and white photo of Joao Goulart, then paused again, listening for more traitorous sounds "...or years..."

This time nothing gave Ames' current position away. Silence reigned. A listening silence. A silence waiting for him to go on.

Chance took a deep breath. When he continued, his voice was a little unsteady. Just a tiny tremble, practically undetectable for those who didn't know him. "These things can leave... a mark... they're not over, they cling to you... they lie hidden. And sometimes... when you least expect it... they ambush you..." Chance paused. This time even a stranger would have noticed that his breathing had gotten more labored. The silence in the room became almost palpable.

"See, a couple of years ago..." He broke off again. Opened his mouth, tried to finish the sentence... and managed nothing but a sharp intake of breath. Finally, with a capitulating shake of his head, he said: "Take Brazil for example - Portugal's colonial rule is long over, but the people are still speaking Spanish." His tone of voice was now back to easy go lucky and steady again. "An event of the past, the colonial invasion, influences the people to this very day, in their everyday lives, and..."

A rather loud noise from the far end of the room cut the history lesson short. Following the sound, Chance ended up in a special room, separated from the rest of the exhibition. It was dedicated to a famous political activist who had helped turn Brazil back to democracy. The room was rather small, a replica of the prison cell the activist had had to spend many years in - a desk, a sink, a toilet, a plank bed. Chance knew that kind of environment only too well.

"Anyway, well played last time. Nice idea, luring me inside the gallery and then turning the alert system on again. Should you be planning to do that again, however, you're in for a disappointment - I took a look at the security system myself this time and disabled it permanently. Unless you've got a quick-operating relay at hand and a soldering iron, no go tonight. You'll have to face me." Chance allowed himself one of his trademark boyish smiles.

As if on cue, the "prison cell's" door fell shut behind him and its lock clicked.

Needless to say, it wasn't supposed to do that.

Chance's smile froze. "Oh come on, Ames, seriously, you didn't put an extra lock, separated from the main security system, to this room?"

In the distance, a siren began to wail.

"And override the system's computer with an external device?"

No answer, of course.

Chance sighed and pulled out his cell phone. "Ilsa? How fast can you get about 50.000 dollar in cash together?" He paused, then: "What for? Well, the official term would be bribe..."

"This is the second time you end up in custody after trying to talk to her", Ilsa pointed out. "I really don't want to meddle, but you don't seem to be making much progress... maybe it's time to rethink your strategy?"

Chance didn't reply.

"Tell her you're sorry, Chance", Ilsa advised him rather exasperatedly. "Tell her you miss her."

He mumbled something about police arriving, told her to get the money and readied himself to surrender by lying face down on the floor, the most unthreatening position possible.

_Tell her you miss her._

Why? Ames wasn't stupid, the fact that he was following her around, from NYC to Rio de Janeiro, should speak for itself.

Of course he was missing her.

No need to spell that out.


	68. Chapter 68

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Guerrero stood motionless for what to Winston seemed like an eternity. Had he gotten through to him? It was impossible to tell - his body language gave nothing away; a stone mask couldn't have been more neutral than his face. His eyes were calm, but it was a menacing calmness. Winston felt reminded of an ice desert or a minefield – nothing moving, everything at perfect peace, but dare to step further and perdition is waiting for you just around the corner.

Finally Guerrero's gaze wandered from Winston's face down to the heavily scorched left sleeve of his jacket. Setting himself on fire had been a damn dangerous and foolish stunt. Apparently spending too much time around Chance was contagious: In its crazy-assedness it was definitely a maneuver more suitable to their mutual friend than level-headed corner man Winston. Guerrero grabbed the back of a chair and pulled it towards himself, its feet loudly scratching over the floor. Not quite unlike a child disagreeing with a teacher's order, he sat down on it, one eyebrow raised in mock question.

"Now, if _someone_ hadn't set the file on fire, I could show you right away what all this is about, but since _someone_ chose to…"

"Dude…"

"I've copied parts of the file when I put together my request for the linguistics department's expertise. I'm going to get it from my car. Don't…" Winston let the sentence trail off as he realized the fruitlessness of any kind of order. Silence reigned for a moment, then: "All I'm saying is… It would be nice if you were still around when I come back."

"Then stop wasting time, Dude. I got appointments to keep."

Never ever had Winston mastered the way down to the garage and then up again to the office this fast, not even the morning when Chance had shown up at the office with severe symptoms of poisoning and the antidote had been downstairs in the van. Despite his record time, however, he half-expected Guerrero to be gone at his return. And indeed, the chair where Guerrero had grumpily sat down a couple of minutes earlier was empty.

The fridge, on the other hand, was wide open. There went Winston's sandwiches… He had never been happier sacrificing his food.

"Now look at this." He spread the copied pages out on the kitchen counter. The table would have been more ideal due to better lighting from the kitchen lamp right above, but since it was displaying a large soot-blackened spot now, using it was out of question. Winston refrained from pointing out whose fault that was.

"This is merely a copy from a copy, but it's still noticeable." Winston looked at munching Guerrero expectantly.

Guerrero kept on munching, now both eyebrows raised.

"You've seen a police file before, haven't you? Where's the difference?"

Guerrero's look said he wasn't interested in playing twenty questions with Winston, but he did glance at the pages. Noticed something. Stopped and stared at the sheet. Put the sandwich aside.

"Impeccable", he finally murmured absent-mindedly, now for the first time really focusing on the papers in front of him.

"That's what I noticed, too", Winston nodded, trying not to sound too enthusiastically. "No coffee stains, no dog-eared pages, no torn punch holes. At first I thought it's because Peale only gave us a copy, but even when I looked really close there was not a single shadow on the paper. Police files go through lots of hands, they get crammed into overflowing file cabinets, they are opened and closed a million times – that leaves marks. But this here… the copies are so perfect, they must have been made from a perfect file. Now, how the hell did that O'Malley woman manage to put together a perfect file that thick? Judging from the entries she must have worked on the case for months, no way it remained that pristine over such a long period of time."

Guerrero was less than impressed. "Not everyone uses an investigation file as a picnic rug, Winston."

Winston bit back a "wiseass". "I then looked at the reports O'Malley wrote", he continued explaining, doing his best to ignore Guerrero going back to munching on his sandwich. "Now, I've had my share of interviews with Irish tourists who witnessed pickpocketing at Fisherman's Wharf and I've had rookies under my wing with an Irish background. They all did two particular things: On the one hand they used "after" all the time to show that something had just happened. "They're after leaving" means "they have just left" – drove me crazy till I figured that out. AND they "do" everything – "I do drive home now." Not a single trace of any of that in O'Malley's texts."

"Not everyone uses colloquial expressions when writing reports, Winston."

Winston slammed down his fist on the kitchen counter so hard, it sent the sheets flying all over the floor. "What the hell is the matter with you? I'm telling you that someone tampered with O'Malley's file and you're not caring at all? I told the linguistics department that I was assuming the reports in the file weren't written by an Irish English speaker. They confirmed that!"

Guerrero said nothing.

"This is about your father! A forged file portrays him as a serial killer and you don't care?" Winston's voice had become so loud, Carmine had trotted over from his resting place in the lounge to check what was going on in the kitchen. Quite telling, the fire hadn't bothered him, but Winston's voice did…

Guerrero still said nothing. He was playing with something in the pocket of his trousers, but he didn't say a word.

Winston felt the urge to strangle him, just to get a reaction out of him, but that reaction would have most likely consisted of a violent defense maneuver. He didn't want to fight with him, he wanted to talk to him, for heaven's sake! "What are you afraid of?"

Whoa, now that was equivalent of a massive physical attack. Winston hadn't really thought about it, he had just blurted it out. Guerrero would surely retaliate. Winston pulled himself to his full height, bracing himself for the payback. To his utter surprise, Guerrero did nothing. Only the hand in his pocket was moving, playing with something.

"Guerrero? You're creeping me out."

"The file corroborated my opinion about my father."

He didn't need to say anything else. Winston understood, and he wouldn't have said it out loud, too.

_Maybe I was wrong. _

_Maybe I was wrong all my life. _

The movement of Guerrero's fingers in his pocket grew unnerving to the point that Winston couldn't stand it anymore. "What's with the fidgeting? What the hell do you have there?"

Again, Guerrero didn't answer. But he stopped playing with whatever was in his pocket. Instead he slowly retrieved it and put it onto the kitchen counter.

A small metal key.


	69. Chapter 69

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"Okay, Ames, this time you really beat me! I mean, seriously, I can imagine there might be something worth stealing in a gallery or a museum, but a zoo?"

Far in the distance, by the hippopotamus compound, Chance could make out movement. A shadow in the semi-darkness, flitting past, nothing more, but Chance was pretty sure that particular exemplar of a thieving magpie didn't belong to Tokyo Zoo's menagerie. Carefully watching out for any kind of traps, he headed towards the sea life section.

"Now, I do know that Tokyo Zoo is the home of a pair of Ultramarine Lorikeets, which belong to the fifty rarest birds in the world and their eggs are sold at the price of diamonds, but that just isn't you, Ames. You can't be after those eggs."

Chance had reached the hippopotamus compound now. Groaning slightly, he climbed up the wall that separated it from the area where they kept the penguins. His shoulder was still not perfect and the wrist still in a splint didn't help either. Once up the wall, however, his labor was rewarded: Movement in the distance again, the swish of a flowing brown mane as a certain someone jumped down a wall.

"You act on impulse and sure as hell the opportunity to make easy money sometimes gets the better of you – for example when you asked Ilsa if you could hock the bracelet she had just given to you or when you stole Guerrero's tools to help Brodie. But stealing eggs of a highly threatened species so that some dumb-ass collector can put them on display and brag about them? Doesn't sound like you at all."

The polar bears in their compound didn't let the visitor who was disturbing their sleep out of their sight. What the hell was that man doing, balancing on the wall that kept them away from those tasty snacks the humans called "penguins"? And come to think of it, he looked quite tasty as well…

"You've got a heart, Ames. It's why I wanted to have you on my crew. You're damn good, yeah, that too, but that was never the point." Chance jumped from the wall between the polar bears and the penguins onto the next wall that kept the gray seals and the bears apart. In Tokyo Zoo, thanks to the city's density and the enormous cost of building ground, everything was jammed together very tightly.

"Look, so far neither the gallery nor the museum has filed any reports with the police. You've got the devil's own luck, Ames. There are no warrants out on you. No harm done."

"No harm done, huh?"

Chance wheeled around. There she was – Ames. Standing right behind him, just like him balancing on the wall. She was dressed completely in black, skintight pullover and trousers, even a woolen black hat. A cat burglar's outfit if he had ever seen one. Damn, she was good, sneaking up on him like that.

"If you were a fugitive you couldn't work with us, you know that. We faced the same problem with Guerrero when he was in that prison, charged with murder. But if you give up your stealing ways now…"

"I'm not stealing anything, Chance!" Ames wasn't exactly yelling, but she spoke rather loudly and her voice was an octave higher than usual. One of the polar bears felt the need to answer her with a threatening roar.

Chance, however, laughed. "Ames, we've been to a gallery in New York and a museum in Rio de Janeiro. Now we're in Tokyo Zoo. All of that in the middle of the night, with the alert system shut off. I'm sorry, but no matter what you call it, I know what I'm seeing."

If looks could kill, Chance would have dropped dead from Ames' angry glare right there and then. "You really think I lost it, don't you? You really think I was so heartbroken after the shit you pulled off in Scotland that I didn't know any better but to go back to where I was coming from, right?"

The look on Chance's face said "Well…", but at least he had enough presence of mind not to say it out loud.

"I've got news for you. After I left that castle I got my act together. I went back to the States and applied for a job. A real job. A social security number and health insurance job. I'm working for a company that sells alert systems. They hired me to test their inventions under real life circumstances. I'm no thief anymore, Chance."

Chance was flabbergasted. Flat out. They both stared at each other, Ames with her lower lip slightly stuck out and Chance looking everywhere but at Ames. Finally he pulled himself together: "I definitely owe you an apology for that one, Ames."

"Only for that one?"

Chance froze. His jaw hardened and he stared off in the distance. "For the other thing, too."

"Why did you…"

She didn't get any further. Chance cut her off before she could finish her question.

"Come back, Ames."

He was still not looking at her and he had said this very fast.

"Why?", she shot back, stepping closer, hoping this would make him look at her.

"The team needs you."

Ames rolled her eyes and stifled a sigh. This was getting ridiculous.

"The team, huh?" She paused. "Well, I don't know. Maybe it's time for me to grow up… stand on my own feet…not to rely on you guys anymore to watch my back…" She paused again, stepped even closer. Chance was still staring off into the distance. "One thing, however, I know for sure I want to do…"

All of a sudden and with all the force she could muster, she pushed Chance against his chest. Chance, still preoccupied with staring off into the distance and all, lost his footing, swayed, swayed some more, Ames stepped backwards so he couldn't hold on to her… off he went, with a huge splash into the gray seals' pool.

Snorting and shuddering in the icy water, Chance emerged almost immediately. "Okay, I definitely deserved this. Can we call it Even Steven?", he called into the night.

No answer. But right next to him a grayish head came out of the water. "Oo-uu?", said the gray seal and nudged him with its giant nose. Another appeared on his left side: "Oo-uu?" – "Wanna play with us?"

All in all twelve seals occupied the pool. And they were bored – meaning they didn't exactly wait for him to form an opinion on that request. The seals obviously were convinced that since Chance was swimming in their pool, they had every right to make good use of him.

Can you say splish splash there's a toy in the water?

Apparently dunking humans counts as great fun when you're a seal.

Ducking flippers and damn strong tails, Chance slowly made his way to the pool edge. Right before his hand finally made contact with the concrete, however, one of the damn beasts dived right underneath him, swam upwards, lifted him and bounced him back right into the middle of the throng.

They did that three times. The excited calls of the animals echoed all over the zoo.

When Chance had struggled his way to the edge for the fourth time, he was getting desperate. His shoulder was aching like hell, he was cold, wet, tired and there was no sign of Ames anywhere.

Damn had he blown it.

He felt the water swirl underneath him – they'd bounce him back again!

Chance sighed. He really deserved this.

Just then a strong hand grabbed his, pulled him towards the edge and out of the water.

"You're lucky she didn't choose the piranha tank, dude."


	70. Chapter 70

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Ilsa outright refused to send them the jet. "He did the same to her that he did to me! _The team needs you. _Rubbish! Does he never learn? How come he knows how to defuse a car bomb in under three minutes and can talk a hostage taker into surrender, but when it comes to women he might just as well be deaf-mute? He can squeeze his ass into a commercial airplane seat!"

"How come you know what happened at the zoo, Ilsa?", Guerrero asked with slight amusement in his voice.

"How come you were able to show up right in time to save him from the ultrahazardous seals?", Ilsa replied, slightly amused herself.

"Did she let you in on what she's planning to do next?"

Ilsa sighed. "Not a word. I told her he's not great at talking about his feelings, but after everything that happened…"

"We'll take a commercial flight then."

"One more thing: Winston asked me to tell you that he figured it out." Ilsa paused. "Anything I should know about?"

"See you tomorrow, Ilsa." Guerrero switched off his phone.

The flight from Tokyo to San Francisco took nine hours. Chance slept most of the time under the influence of a strong painkiller. The seals had played with him quite enthusiastically, he looked like he had been in a bar fight.

With Chance snoring peacefully by his side, Guerrero had plenty of time to ponder Winston's message – _he figured it out. _Trust the ex-cop to find the lock the key belonged to in less than 48 hours. Guerrero didn't find any sleep during the flight.

Winston was waiting for Guerrero when he dropped Chance off at the office. "You wanna go now? Or get some rest first?", he asked.

"Let's get this done."

... ... ...

The key belonged to a PO box in Palo Alto. They rode the thirty plus miles in complete silence. It was not that there hadn't been anything to say. In fact Winston's mind was full of questions, the most important being: "Why in the world did you not figure the key thing out yourself? With your contacts it would have been a piece of cake! How could you just be sitting on this?"

But he was also fully aware of the fact that, had he actually voiced this, he would have been confronted with a "Private business, dude", that would have brought everything to a screeching halt. The mere fact that Guerrero hadn't told Chance about the whole issue spoke volumes.

Guerrero was, dare he think it, _conflicted_.

Yeah, Winston couldn't believe it, too. In all those years he had worked with Guerrero he had never come across as anything other than calm and collected, not to say cold-blooded, with clear goals and ideas how to get there. The guy knew what he wanted.

The only exception from this had been back at the prison, after the death of his friend, when he had been framed for murder and he had tried to escape. His fight with Chance… his refusal to listen to sound argument… the stubbornness to accept help… at that moment another side of his had shone through, but only for a brief moment. Guerrero had feelings, too.

_The file corroborated my opinion about my father._

It didn't take a genius to figure out what kind of opinion Guerrero must have had about his father. The burnt file was quite a clear statement. Winston thought back to what Peale had told them about Guerrero's background – the mother that had started drinking after the father left the family when Guerrero was little… Winston sure as hell knew how _he _would feel, had his father done something similar to him. In Guerrero's case, with his Old Testament an eye for an eye attitude, multiply that by a hundred…

And now? The file that pretended to tell the truth about Guerrero's father was a forgery. Someone had gone through a lot of trouble to make the father appear as a very bad man. What could that mean? Was it maybe all wrong, the whole picture of the father being a bastard that left wife and kid to enjoy his life?

Winston understood why Guerrero hadn't done any research on the key. A phrase, heard a long time ago in one of those psychology seminars they make you sit through when you're trying to make rank in the police department.

_Breakdown of thought paradigm. _

Something like that was hard to deal with.

Only when they pulled up in front of the post office, Winston broke the silence. "Wanna go alone?"

Guerrero hesitated, looked at Winston, looked at the post office… and shook his head. A brief, barely perceptible motion before he started walking towards the building.

At the counter Winston paid the clerk a bribe. He'd close the doors to the area where they kept the PO boxes for a moment so they could look into theirs in peace.

Finding the box posed no problem. It was one of the bigger ones, usually used by companies. Guerrero didn't make any fuss. He inserted the key, turned it around and pulled the door open.

Winston could barely make it out in the dim light, with Guerrero blocking half his view, but it looked like the box contained a brown paper bag and a white envelope. His assumption was confirmed when Guerrero grabbed both of it rather unceremoniously and headed outside, straight for the car.

"Drive northwards", he instructed Winston, and off they went. Both items clutched tightly in his hands, he directed Winston through Palo Alto into one of the suburbs, to the parking lot of a closed down supermarket.

"We're alone", Winston said.

Guerrero nodded, retrieved a combat knife from a hidden sheath attached to his ankle and cut the envelope open. Out came a letter. The handwriting was fleeting, thin, with lots of crossed out words, as if done under great pressure and in haste.

_Dear Mr. Guerrero, _

_the fact that you're reading this means that I not only failed to make direct contact with you but that this case cost me my life after all. It is a really long story and I do not have the time to write it all down here, but it boils down to this: A couple of months ago the item that you'll find in the paper bag was brought to me with the request to deliver it to its rightful owner. An issue that seemed so simple, so harmless… I have to confess, if I had known it would turn my world upside down and in the end – apparently – kill me, I'd have probably thrown it away. But by the time I realized the dimensions of the whole thing, it was way too late for that. I had landed myself in quite a mess. My phone was tapped, my car was tracked, I found bugs in my apartment... To this day I do not know who is behind all this, but so far I've escaped three attempts on my life. What is so important about this item still beats me, it's more than forty years old, for heaven's sake! All I know is that someone out there is willing to commit murder to obtain it. I thought the only person in the world who could maybe help me out of this mess was you, but you've done a very good job of concealing yourself. I hope this item brings you more luck than me. _

_Grace O'Malley _

Guerrero took the paper bag and removed it.

For a moment they both stared at the content wordlessly and stunned.

What the hell?

It was a letter in a bottle. A green wine bottle with a weathered label, barely readable, containing a small scrap of paper.

Slowly, Guerrero opened it and retrieved the scrap, careful not to destroy it. The paper was thin as a butterfly's wing.

_I don't know what's going on, but time is running out. If you find this, please tell my son I love him. _

And then followed, Winston recognized this from Peale's file, Guerrero's real name and the address of his childhood home.

Both remained silent for a long time. Guerrero's eyes never left the scrap of paper in his hand.

"We've got to talk to Chance about this", Winston finally said.


	71. the plight of the Crane

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ the plight of the Crane ~**_

When they came back to the office, Peale had only just delivered the original file.

"So you're looking for prints of the forger?", Chance concluded after hearing their story and studying the letter in the bottle long and thoughtfully. "There must be hundreds of them."

"I'll try the photos first. They get touched less often than the actual sheets." Winston spread his crime scene kit on his desk. "I'll run whatever I find and see if anyone jumps out."

"Someone who doesn't belong to O'Malley's unit in Dublin or Peale's people here…", Chance nodded in agreement.

The security system suddenly gave a short beep, startling all three of them. One glance at his watch however, and Chance smiled. He made a placating gesture and hurried towards the elevator while the other two put their guns away.

"Don't tell me he's got a date", Winston groaned.

"What about putting gloves on?", Guerrero asked in a rather sharp tone.

"I was just about to get them out", came the annoyed reply. "I know how to take fingerprints."

"And don't talk while handling the photos, dude. With your wet pronunciation you'll leave DNA traces."

"WET PRONUNCIATION? Listen, wiseass…"

"Hey, no swearing in polite company!" Chance rounded the corner again, this time with Ash by his side. The boy was carrying a rucksack, Chance had slung a carryall over his shoulder.

"Ah, Philippa is off to New Zealand, right?" Winston's smile was just as bright as Chance's. Having the boy here, as a guest, for several weeks – what a difference compared to how they had begun, with Philippa anxiously watching every minute father and son spent together.

"She's just dropped him off and is heading to the airport now."

Ash however, merely shrugged and nodded, looking more at the floor than anywhere else. He was no stranger here anymore, but saying good-bye to his mother for such a long time had been a first, and the prospect of actually living with his father for a while… it was all a bit much.

Chance put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Ash's got to do a project for school – he's got to build an erupting volcano. Think you could help him, Guerrero?"

The expression on Guerrero's face said _"Dude, you know how to mix that shit just as well."_, but Chance's said _"This is your chance to give Winston a break without having to acknowledge it. Let him work in peace."_

Quite a potent argument, Guerrero had to admit that. With one last "Keep your mouth shut, dude", he got up and walked over to the kitchen area.

… … …

"First take three teaspoons of baking soda and put them in the glass in the cone. Then mix one part of this here with two parts water."

Just like Chance had expected, Guerrero was calmer now that he could actually do something. It was strange, seeing him with Ash. Chance couldn't help but think of the time when Guerrero had sat with him like that. Only that they hadn't built science fair volcanoes back then….

"For effect, you can add red food coloring. A dash of dish liquid is a must. Stir well."

Ash did his best to do as he was told and Guerrero nodded his approval. "Now add the mixture to the baking soda until the glass is about half full. Slowly."

When Chance had done something similar for the first time, he had almost blown both of them up, which had earned him a night locked up in the trunk of Guerrero's car. Ash was a lot less unruly and much more patient. Well, he was younger. And he had already learned to respect Guerrero.

With a slight touch of his hand, Guerrero steered the boy away from the volcano.

A second later it erupted. Spectacularly.

"WOW!" Ash was obviously fascinated. "Dad, have you seen that? WOW!"

"Now you'll do it again, on your own."

There was that unsure look on the Ash's face again, but Guerrero simply kept on talking.

"If you put some of that stuff in a thin-wall bulb, place it about here…" He indicated the spot inside the volcano's cone with his index finger "…and connect it with a cell phone hidden underneath the volcano, you could ignite the whole thing from a distance, even through walls, unless they're steel reinforced. To get past that kind of walls you'd need a second transmitter, hidden somewhere in the room itself…"

"Why in the world would I want to do that?", Ash interrupted him, rather wide-eyed. Chance shot his friend a very poignant look.

Oh damn… good question, well spotted, dude... Guerrero briefly closed his eyes. He was really losing it.

"I'm just saying…" Jeez, even to his ears that sounded lame and Ash didn't look as if he was even remotely convinced. Of course not. He was his father's son. The way he was studying him right now, head slightly tilted, blue eyes sparkling with curiosity… Guerrero had to remind himself not to accidentally call the kid Junior.

"Those were quite specific instructions…", Ash frowned.

Just then a shrill computer beep, coming from Winston's desk, followed by a "DAMN IT! DAMN IT!", drew everyone's attention. It was a special alert, informing them that their computer system was getting attacked by a virus or another hostile program.

With a wave of his hand, Chance signaled Ash to stay behind in the kitchen and clean the mess up. Chemistry class was over for today. Rushing over to Winston's desk, Guerrero immediately recognized the problem, unceremoniously pushed Winston away from the keyboard and started typing.

"One of the fingerprints I pulled", Winston explained a little breathless. "I ran it and it triggered some sort of automatic program."

"It tried to track the computer down from which the ID request was coming", Guerrero added, never looking up. "FBI and CIA have programs like that. Looks like we were lucky, though. Stopped the tracking before it could identify us."

"Could you see whose print you pulled?"

Winston slowly nodded in reply to Chance's question. "A CIA agent named Leroy."

This was bad news. Good Lord, this was bad news. Last time they had a run-in with the CIA…

As if on cue, the elevator dinged. Out stepped Ilsa, calling for them at the top of her voice. "Chance! Winston! Guerrero! We've got an emergency!" She was not alone. Very carefully she extended her hand and led a woman out the elevator.

Chance recognized her immediately – she was the Crane's girlfriend, the mother of his son. They had briefly met during the job with the anti-flu remedy... the job that had killed the Crane.

Her face was tear-streaked and she was shaking all over.

"They've taken Isamu!", she cried.


	72. Chapter 72

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Ilsa looked very distressed, too. No surprise there, though – she had rescued the boy when they had had to evacuate the building, had carried him into safety on her back and he had revealed the meaning of the kanji sign on her shoulder blade to her. The very kanji sign that was now permanently adorning her skin…

But of course none of them took this lightly – they were talking about the abduction of an eleven year old boy here. Chance had been the one who had broken the news of the Crane's death to him. He remembered his tears and his sorrow very well. Damn, the boy deserved an unburdened childhood. The Crane's early demise had already cast a shadow over it, and now this?

They maneuvered Akemi, Isamu's mother, in the conference room, but no one thought of offering her a cup of tea or maybe something stronger – this was just too bad news, they needed to know what had happened immediately. Every second counts when a child has gone missing.

"Jin told me, if we ever need help, you're the people we could go to", Akemi whispered, staring at the table. _Jin._ The Crane's real name. Even Guerrero hadn't been able to find it out.

"And you" She now addressed Chance, but only very vaguely, with a slight upward tilt of her head. "told me the same on the day he…" She let the sentence trail off. "If we ever get into trouble…"

Chance placed a hand on her shoulder and she took a deep breath. It sounded as if she was just emerging from deep water. "Tell us what happened", he said.

"I was sleeping. My sleep is light – when you're with a man like Jin, a man who has enemies… it has to be. Usually I can hear the neighbor's cat going in through their kitty door at midnight. But last night I didn't hear a thing. I brought him to bed at nine and when I woke up the next morning he was gone. No signs of a struggle. This was left on his nightstand…" She handed Chance a small USB flash drive. Guerrero took it and inserted it. Chance walked over to the conference room's door and closed it firmly. Ash was still in the kitchen, cleaning up. There was no need for him to overhear this.

"It's an audio file", she said. Guerrero nodded and activated it.

At first nothing could be heard but faint static. Then the scratching of chair legs over concrete floor. Finally a male voice spoke up, the sound distorted by some sort of computer program so that it resembled a robot's voice. A robot's voice with a Russian accent. It seemed to be coming from some sort of cellar.

_I'm terribly sorry, Ms. Akemi, but I've got very bad news for you. _

"Stop putting up a show, get to the point", Guerrero murmured.

_You'll never see your son again, but he is in good hands. He'll pay his father's debt. Don't try to find him, don't try to negotiate with us, this is bloodguilt and the only way to clear it. Всего наилучшего. _

The file stopped.

"Fsewo nailuschevo?", Ilsa asked, rubbing her upper arms in an unconscious gesture of feeling cold.

"Best wishes", Guerrero translated. He was looking straight at Chance. His expression said: _You know what this means?_

Chance nodded, slowly and very thoughtfully. Ilsa couldn't help but think that his grave expression was even more frightening than the kidnapper's voice. Winston, however, moved by the boy's fate like everyone else, exploded at this silent conversation that left him out of the loop.

"Care to share what the hell you two are talking about?"

"The very silent kidnapping, the theatrically enhanced message, the closing words… it all points to an organization named горизонт", Chance explained, still deep in thought.

"Thanks for the clarification. That helps a lot."

Ignoring Winston, Guerrero turned to Akemi: "You've definitely come to the right place. You're in damn deep trouble."

"The word горизонт means "horizon". It's the name of a criminal organization that offers high end security… and assassinations", Chance told Winston. "Only one organization in the world was more dangerous."

This time Winston didn't ask for any clarification. He knew exactly what – and whom – Chance was talking about. Ilsa, however, looked confused.

"His old boss…", Winston quietly told her.

At this very moment the elevator signaled. No alert from the security system?

Chance, Guerrero and Winston immediately drew their guns. Chance moved Akemi towards a safe corner, Winston made Ilsa hide underneath the conference table.

"ASH! INTO THE CHAMBER!", Chance yelled. He had shown the boy a hideout, codenamed the chamber, where he was protected from ricochet bullets and could call the police, if necessary.

On the audio file Akemi had been told not to try and find her son. Had they watched her and followed her here? Were they dealing with people from горизонт? If yes, they were all in grave danger.

With Guerrero bringing up the rear, the three dashed out the conference room and into the lobby, building a line of defense right in front of the elevator. As its doors slid open, the occupants were welcomed with three heavy-calibered guns trained at them.

"Happy to see you too, Junior", the Old Man said. Not caring at all about the massive fire power, he stepped out of the elevator. Baptiste, who had been leaning leisurely against the cabin's back wall, greeted them with a smug smile.

"Speak of the devil", Winston groaned.


	73. Chapter 73

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"Which part of "call ahead when you're coming" didn't you get?", Chance snarled.

"I somehow figured you'd turn me away." The Old Man's smile grew even broader. "Let's discuss the rest in the conference room. Is your Mrs. Pucci armed? Tell her to stand down, will you? I've heard she likes to defend you quite fiercely." He was openly laughing now.

The expression on Chance's and Guerrero's face sent an icy-cold shiver down Winston's back.

"What do you mean by _discuss_? What the hell do you want to discuss?" Chance had lowered his gun, but he was still blocking the way to the conference room.

"Ash in hearing distance? Let me say hello to my grandson …" The Old Man was pausing just long enough that Chance could breathe in and start with a "You're not going to see him today!". He let Chance get to the "You're not…" part, then he continued "…since it was him who asked me to come, it would only be polite…"

"_Ash_ called you?"

"You've got yourself a snitch, Junior." Baptiste was obviously having a field day.

"Mrs. Pucci? Don't shoot, it's just grandpa and Uncle Baptiste!" Still laughing, the Old Man walked past Chance and straight towards the conference room.

If looks could kill, his back would have been riddled with bullets.

"The poor boy was concerned. Apparently his father came back from his latest job in bad shape… I like my coffee black", he informed Ilsa. "No sugar, no milk. Make it strong. And get the poor soul here a cup, too" He nodded in the direction of Akemi who was only now, reluctantly clambering to her feet again. "She looks like she needs a spiked one."

Ilsa didn't move an inch. Joubert chuckled.

"Had a run-in with a bunch of seals", Chance grumbled. He had totally forgotten what kind of impression his collection of bruises must have made on Ash.

"Yeah, those Navy guys...", said the Old Man. "And aside from that you had a sparring accident with Guerrero…" The way he said it made very clear what he thought about that "accident".

Ilsa wondered if Joubert also somehow had found out why the "accident" had happened. The thought made her shudder.

"Ash heard your new client cry her heart out to you and figured you might be in for a dangerous ride. With your little thief AWOL and Mrs. Pucci here preoccupied with babysitting duties…" Damn, the old bastard was good. They hadn't officially decided yet that Ilsa would stay behind to watch over Ash, but of course she was the most logical choice. "He thought you could do with some back-up and sent me a message." The Old Man looked pleased like a fat cat next to an empty canary cage.

"And here we are, matey – your back-up." Now Baptiste was chuckling. "Just like old times."

Chance's reaction was predictable: "Get the hell out of here."

"What, your son wants to help you and you give a sniff?" Joubert leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. Ilsa felt reminded of a gorilla she had seen in one of those Jane Goodall documentaries.

"_My son_ and I are going to have a word about taking initiative", Chance hissed. "Now take your carc…"

"Uh, bro…"

Everybody turned to Guerrero, except Joubert and Baptiste. Baptiste was throwing Joubert a triumphant look that said _You owe me twenty._ and Joubert nodded in defeat. Damn, this Pucci woman had looked like a sure win.

"He does have a point. Your wrist is still in a splint." Guerrero didn't look as if he was happy admitting that.

"Your shoulder is not healed either", Ilsa chimed in, just as reluctantly as Guerrero.

The Old Man rolled his eyes. _Now _she was speaking up.

"And the team is two people short…" Winston hated to support Joubert's position just as much as the others. "If these Russians are only half as dangerous as you said they are…"

"So it's indeed горизонт?"

The silence around the table was confirmation enough for the Old Man. "Thought so. The Crane used to work for them. Legend has it he screwed them out of a couple of millions and killed his own crew."

"Bloodguilt…" Winston murmured. Akemi pressed a hand against her mouth.

"They lost a damn good assassin when the Crane broke with them. Now the boy is supposed to follow his father's footsteps…"

"He's only eleven!", Akemi yelled at him in sudden outrage.

"The younger you take them in, the easier they are to influence", the Old Man replied unfazed. "I can only agree with that."

Winston put a hand on Chance's shoulder, but it wasn't enough. He started towards him, the Old Man was on his feet in no time, Baptiste got up, too, rushing between them. Chance stopped, his face only inches away from Baptiste's.

"We need to find the boy fast or he'll make experiences he'll never forget", Joubert stated, watching the two men with an expression that seemed odd to Ilsa. Was that a twinkle in his eyes?

"Any suggestions?" Winston asked quickly.

"Divide et impera", Baptiste said, still face to face with Chance. "We split their chain of command and use the ensuing struggle for power to get the boy out."

"Like we did in Charleston!", Chance said, suddenly relaxing. "Do you want to pull an Aldous Huxley or a JRR Tolkien?"

"Huxley"

"But for Huxley we need a real story to work on."

Was that an animated conversation between two people who had, about thirty seconds ago, been ready to kill each other? Not only Ilsa was rolling her eyes heavenward.

"Excuse me", she chimed in, "I really don't want to disturb this fascinating example of assassin shop language… " Her voice was dripping with irony. "…but apparently I'm facing a gap in education here."

"A _Tolkien_ means we tell a lie made up from top to bottom. A _Huxley_ means we change what really happened so that it fits our needs", Joubert explained, his tone making very clear that he was being generous here, sharing knowledge with _her_.

Ilsa chose to ignore it. "So for a Huxley we would need a real story?"

"No problem", said Baptiste, smiling smugly again. "We know the Crane's real story."


	74. Chapter 74

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

California is by far the most populous US state, home to eight of the nation's fifty most populated cities. One of the things that definitely draws the people is the very agreeable Mediterranean climate practically everywhere – unless you take up residence in Death Valley or the Sierra Nevada, of course. Who cares about an earthquake every now and then when you can have an average of three thousand something hours of sun every year?

This goes for legitimate businesses just as well as for criminal organizations.

Especially if the founders of the criminal organization come from a significantly colder country, say Russia, for example, and have had their share of continental subarctic climate with the annual average temperature about 23 °F in, say, a Siberian Gulag, for example.

No surprise горизонт had set up camp in Sacramento.

"Tell me this isn't what it looks like." Winston couldn't help but stare at the massive walls of the building they were slowly approaching.

"If you think it looks like a medieval castle, you're wrong." Guerrero kept his eyes trained on the west wing. Thermographic camera pictures indicated that Isamu was kept there, on the third floor.

"Wise ass." The building did resemble a castle, but Winston knew very well there had been no middle-ages in the European sense, with knights, castles, damsels in North America. They had once worked a case that involved a professor of medieval history. He had spent a night locked up in a cellar with him. Talking about medieval history had distracted the professor from his severe claustrophobia. "It looks like a prison."

"Former Sacramento State Prison. Sold to an upcoming international investor in 1996. The municipal council was only too happy to get rid of the thing. They thought so many criminals in the direct neighborhood of one of their booming industrial areas would scare honest businessmen away, thus they relocated the inmates to a new building on the other side of the county." The Old Man chuckled. "Life's ironic, isn't it?"

Both Winston and Guerrero knew he wasn't talking about Sacramento's municipal council helping to plant one of the world's most dangerous criminal organization in the heart of their fastest growing and most promising looking area. He was talking about Ash and the fact that Chance's son, of all people, had fastened the ties to the Old Man that Chance so desperately had tried to sever.

Joubert was definitely enjoying himself.

The road to the former prison was blocked by a red-white bar, two guards left and right. The guards were not openly armed, but the hints that they carried significant firing power with them, right underneath their bulky suit jackets, were less than subtle.

Winston sighed and rolled down the car's window. He was still not completely at peace with this plan. "We'd like to discuss the matter of a certain apprentice with Bogdan", he told the guard on the left.

The guard looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

Winston couldn't completely disagree with him. This felt crazy. But well, Chance had devised this plan, so what else could it be?

More than an hour and three very thorough strip searches later, they were let into a hall that once must have served as the prison's canteen. At the far end of the room a middle-aged man was seated, wearing a wool hat and sun glasses. Bogdan. Very clever. He was taking no chances. The distance alone prevented them from identifying him, but better safe than sorry. He was typing into a black tablet pc.

"There must be something wrong with your hearing…", a guard standing next to Bogdan said. It took them a moment to understand – he was reading what his boss was writing on the tablet. Whoa, this was bordering on paranoid. "I remember significantly telling you that I'm not willing to negotiate the boy's fate. It's decided. His did not only cost us a lot of money, we also lost three good men. Good personnel is damn hard to find, as I'm sure you're aware of, Mr. Joubert…"

"It wasn't the Crane who cost you all that money and those men", Joubert replied, unfazed. "As you might recall, prior to his departure the Crane started showing signs of rebellion – began questioning decisions, stopped doing what he was told… he was developing a conscience… very dangerous disease…. Trust me, I've experienced the ugly fallout firsthand."

Glowering like a volcano ready to erupt, Winston took a very deep breath and turned towards the Old Man. Guerrero made a subtle movement with his hand, brushed against Winston's with the lightest of touches. _Not now_, it said.

All but smirking at Winston, Joubert continued: "The Crane wanted to change sides, at least sort of – he didn't swear off killing, like other people… " here, he paused for the tiniest of moments "… but he decided he only wanted to kill those people who really deserved it. His plan was to just walk away. But a member of your organization, your very partner Vitaly, framed him, set up a trap…"

Bogdan began laughing loudly. In fact he was so shaking with mad laughter, he didn't manage to type in his next words and thus spoke them himself: "You don't really want to pull a divide et impera on us, do you? We _invented_ divide et impera! You're trying to execute a Huxley here, aren't you? Nice try, really!" Then he started clapping.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but this wasn't part of Chance's plan, was it?", Winston said through clenched teeth.

Bogdan retrieved a small walkie-talkie from his jacket. "We're ready."

The door in the middle of the room swung open. In walked half a dozen guards – with Chance and Baptiste in their middle, blindfolded, no shoes, hand- and footcuffed. They were taking no chances, these Russians….

"No", Guerrero replied, sounding as he was stifling a sigh. "Definitely not part of the plan."


	75. Chapter 75

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"You've got quite a reputation… and lots of enemies, Mr. Chance", Bogdan said, still highly amused. "You of course, too, Mr. Baptiste."

Baptiste rolled his eyes. _Typical. _

Chance looked at Baptiste and shrugged his shoulders in a "What can I say?" gesture.

"There's quite a bounty on your head, Mr. Chance …. On yours, too, Mr. Baptiste."

Baptiste pressed his lips together in barely hidden annoyance. Chance looked as if was struggling to suppress a smug smile.

Bogdan turned towards his other group of prisoners. "On the other hand, Mr. Guerrero and Mr. Joubert, regarding _you_ I've been advised to kill you as fast as possible. Every minute I let you live longer is a minute more that I risk dying a slow and painful death, should the tables turn for whatever reason. So this is what we'll do: Mr. Guerrero, Mr. Joubert and Mr. Winston will be executed as soon as I've heard from my contact in Moscow who might want to ask Mr. Joubert a couple of questions first."

"Hang on a sec, no bullshit explanation about me?", Winston chimed in. "These two get to stay alive because they've got so many enemies" he nodded in the direction of Chance and Baptiste "and these other two get killed because of their reputation. What about me? Why kill me?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winston, but you fall into the category of _expendable_."

Winston made a sound that resembled the angry snort of a sea lion. One of the guards stepped forward and punched him straight in the face while two others made sure he couldn't punch back.

"Having a reputation that neither calls for a bounty on your head nor a prophylactic kill proves you've lived the life of an upright citizen", Chance told Winston loudly, stopping him from trying to retaliate the punch despite being held down.

Winston was surprised by Chance's intervention. He had thought they'd pull a Cousin Frank, start a struggle now, while they weren't locked up anywhere, and overwhelm their captors. He hadn't seen that Chance and Guerrero had already caught a glimpse of the cuffs they were going to be bound with and had mutually agreed on a far more elegant plan. Thank God they'd taken precautions.

"Wise words", Bogdan nodded in mock appreciation. "As a treat Mr. Chance and Mr. Baptiste will be allowed to watch their friends die tonight. Afterwards they'll be handed over to the highest bidder as soon as possible. Thank you for providing us with such a nice little extra income."

The bastard actually took a bow.

"Now provide our guests with the special jewelry, please."

The guards removed the cuffs Chance and Baptiste had already been wearing and replaced them with futuristic looking ones only around the wrists. Winston, Joubert and Guerrero received the same. Bogdan retrieved what looked like a small remote control from his jacket, aimed it first at Chance and Baptiste, then at Winston, Joubert and Guerrero. Every time he pushed a button. Small single green lights started blinking on all the cuffs.

"These cuffs are packed with enough blasting agents to not only tear your wrists off, but rip your bodies completely apart. Do not put more distance between you than six feet tops. Any inch further activates the detonator." He motioned the guards to escort the prisoners to the cell block. "Mr. Baptiste and Mr. Chance in one cell, Mr. Winston, Mr. Joubert and Mr. Guerrero into another. The only disadvantage of this great invention – the radio signal is too weak to go through the thick walls they built this prison with."

… … …

"So no key-stealing rat this time?", Baptiste asked.

"No rat this time. Whatever became of it anyway?" Chance hitched up his shirt.

"Joubert is paying a ratsitter so it doesn't feel lonely when he's away."

Chance started chuckling, but Baptiste ignored him. Instead he stared at a small, really small black spot right above Chance's left hipbone. "You've actually prepared a hidden treasure."

There was definitely admiration in his voice, although he was trying to hide it. He had always avoided hidden treasures as a backup plan. The idea of carrying a needle around in his flesh, pushed so deeply into the body's natural adipose tissue mass that only the pinhead stood out, wasn't exactly appealing to him. Granted, with a bit of local anesthesia, the pain was manageable, but still, a needle… stuck into your body for hours…

"Let me do that", Baptiste reached out to pull the needle out.

"I'm good, thank you", Chance refused and batted his hand away.

"You don't trust me", Baptiste grumbled, sitting back on the small plank bed, darkly watching as Chance struggled with retrieving the needle that would open the futuristic cuffs' conventional lock.

This was the disadvantage Bogdan hadn't thought about: Since the detonator needed a radio signal to work, it was impossible to keep up a second electronic signal that locked the cuffs. The danger of interference and accidental explosion was too high, as one of Bogdan's associates had found out the hard way while interviewing a former business partner. So if a captive, despite three very thorough strip searches, had nevertheless managed to bring in a needle, the efficiency of the cuffs was greatly reduced.

"Let's just say I learned a couple of things about hurt feelings in the past few weeks. Apparently I suck at apologizing, but nevertheless…" Chance took a deep breath. "It wasn't fair that I reminded you of how fast the Old Man had gotten me out of prison back when we were in Mexico to see Cervantes. Shouldn't have rubbed that in."

"Mate, you just laughed your ass off because the bounty on your head is higher than on mine."

"Seem to suck at learning from my mistakes, too." Chance used his shirt to wipe the blood of the now retrieved needle, went down on his knees and started working on Baptiste's cuffs.

For a while silence reigned. Then Chance spoke up again: "The thing is, after araña you had the Old Man all to yourself… and now there's Ash…and again you take a backseat."

"You're worried I'm jealous?"

Chance's quietness spoke volumes. Baptiste shook his head.

"Look at me, Junior."

Despite the name, Chance did as he was told. One glance at his eyes and Baptiste knew for sure that this was what he had suspected all along: Not an apology. Merely a father trying to protect his son.

Bloody hell, Junior was right, he had every reason in the world to hate Ash. And he had tried, definitely. But… just like with Junior… Noise outside in the corridor prevented him from having to answer Junior's unspoken question.

"Got to go now!", a guard yelled and yanked their door open. They quickly hid the fact that their cuffs were both unlocked.

"Ready to say good-bye to your friends?", the man smirked, pointing his machine gun at them.

"Ready when you are", Baptiste replied. "Nice watch you've got there, matey."


	76. Chapter 76

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Scoffing at his captive's bravado, the guard used his machine gun's barrel to roughly push both men out in the corridor, where even more guards were waiting. Just like they had done when they had paraded Baptiste and Chance into the hall, they took them in the middle again. Every single one of them was heavily armed.

"Bogdan's taking no chances, huh?", Chance said, more in the way of a casual remark than a question. Smiling at the other men, he took position right where they wanted him. Since the cuffs required Baptiste's close proximity, he was placed right next to him.

"Even with those handcuffs on, he said you're crazy enough to try something", the guard explained. "Well, I wanna see that – someone foolish enough to buck with explosives around the wrists." Apparently he wasn't following his boss' reasoning, probably thought him overcautious. With a nod of his head, he motioned the group to start marching.

Baptiste and Chance, however, just looked at each other.

"Hey, are you thinking about carrying out a sit-in or something? Move!"

Baptiste slowly turned towards the guard. "Matey, be careful what you wish for."

With one fluid motion, Baptiste lost his cuffs and handed them over to Chance who had only loosened one cuff, the other was still dangling from his left wrist. He clicked Baptiste's pair in place right next to them. Back to back they grabbed the nearest guards' machine guns.

The thing is, at this close a range, it's impossible to use a machine gun on moving targets such as struggling prisoners without mowing down your own people. Bogdan had relied too much on the cuffs' technology and the theoretical threat men with machine guns always posed. He had known Chance was crazy, but he hadn't thought the implications of this knowledge through, hadn't thought in specifics – Chance was indeed crazy enough to try "something", and that meant, in concrete terms, he was crazy enough to go against more than half a dozen men with machine guns.

Baptiste managed to kick the loudmouth and another guard into the still open cell and slam the door shut, while Chance shot two other men in the legs, which left five more to deal with. One turned tail and ran.

"Shoot him!", Baptiste yelled, bringing down another guard to give Chance time to fire.

"Too far away to get the legs", Chance replied.

"Not talking about the legs!" Baptiste replied. "You stop him, we've got another minute alone with these guys." He fended off another attacker.

"There are surveillance cams everywhere, they already know things aren't going their way. I'm actually surprised we don't have company yet!"

"Maybe their forces are tied up somewhere else…" Guerrero came hurrying around the corner, along with Winston and Joubert, carrying machine guns just like him. All cuffs were in Guerrero's hands.

At the same time a fresh group of guards came running from the direction the lone guard had disappeared in. Joubert and Winston started firing above Chance's and Baptiste's heads to slow them down, while Guerrero crouched to the ground.

"Where did you hide your treasure?", Chance asked Guerrero, actually laughing in the midst of all this chaos.

"DON'T ASK HIM!", Winston thundered. "DON'T REMIND ME! I'LL NEVER GET THAT PICTURE OUT OF MY HEAD!"

Well, the body part with the most natural adipose tissue mass, especially on a rather skinny guy like Guerrero, is…

"Schoolgirl", Guerrero scoffed. "Make way!" He had connected two cuffs with each other by clicking them together like chain links and now sent them skidding across the floor, right through the melee of fighting men, while throwing the third set of cuffs in a loop high above their heads, so that the distance between them would make them explode and cut off the back-ups' way.

One had to admire his knowledge of physics – the cuffs exploded at just the right point between the approaching group and the fighting group.

The impact of the detonation not only blew two giant holes in the solid corridor walls left and right, it also blew all combatants off their feet and momentarily stopped all struggles. Chance, Baptiste and Guerrero were on their feet first.

"The boy was moved to the east wing, northwest, fourth floor, room right by the stairwell", Guerrero quickly told Chance. "The former guest wing. No bars in front of the window – apparently they didn't want him to feel like a prisoner.

"You actually had time to make someone speak?" Chance loosed his and Baptiste's cuffs from his wrist.

"You don't want to know, bro", Guerrero replied and Chance nodded. He then turned to Baptiste.

"You stay with them, hold them up as long as you can. I'm going to get the boy." He placed his and Baptiste's cuffs into Baptiste's hands. Baptiste almost dropped them, he hadn't thought Junior would trust him with these. Then he understood.

_Trust. _

This was better than any apology.

Chance raced down the corridor while his friends got ready to set up a barricade. Nevertheless Chance knew he would bump into more guards on his way to Isamu. Unless…

_No bars in front of the window._

Two minutes later Chance was clinging to the building's outer wall, making his way from one barred window to the next. His feet had nowhere to stand, it all depended on the strength of his arms. His shoulder felt like it was on fire and his only just healed wrist was protesting vehemently against the strain he was putting on it, too. But at least none of the guards had spotted him yet. Judging from the gun fire he could hear coming from inside, Guerrero and Co. were keeping them preoccupied. Thank God the east wing was in reasonable distance.

Isamu had grown a lot since Chance had last seen him. He would be a young man soon, just like Ash, and judging from his at the moment still lanky arms and legs, he'd soon bring all the physical assets to the table that would qualify him for following his father's footsteps. No surprise горизонт had taken him. Big paws on a puppy…

For now, however, Isamu was a very scared boy. But he recognized Chance. "Why did they take me?", he blurted out as soon as Chance had clambered into the room. "What have I done? They said they'd train me – what for?"

Uh-oh, Akemi had told them she had revealed his father's identity to the boy, but apparently she had kept Isamu in the dark about his father's past. Chance could definitely relate to that, but what was he supposed to reply? The fact that machine guns were audibly being fired in the building and the sounds were getting closer saved him from having to answer.

"Come on, I'll give you a piggy-back ride", he told the boy. Quickly they climbed outside. However, climbing downwards from the fourth floor with such a load on your back is almost impossible, with the extra weight shifting the body's center of mass, gravity almost inevitably brings you off balance. Chance couldn't risk that, he had to go upwards to the roof.

"And now?", Isamu asked, once they were standing right on top of the main cell block.

Chance looked around – no guards in sight. Apparently they were busy elsewhere. Guerrero and Baptiste had always been a good team. "We'll use this to rappel to the ground." He ripped what looked like a security camera cable from the roof. "Don't worry, it will hold, trust me. Come on, hop back on my back."

But Isamu hesitated. "It'll rip. It's just a cable. We'll fall to death." The poor child was shaking all over.

Chance took a deep breath. Time was pressing down hard on them, someone could open fire on them any second… What options did he have? He _could _punch the boy unconscious and transport him downwards by force… but no. No way he'd hit this kid.

"You know what your name means?"

"Course I know", the boy hissed. "_Courage._"

"Your father gave you that name. It's what he wanted you to be – courageous." Chance was speaking very calm now Sometimes courage means you've got to trust someone. Trust me, Isamu. I'm going to get you out of here."

The boy looked at him for a moment, dark eyes boring into him. Then he stretched out his arms and climbed onto Chance's back again.

Chance's original plan had been to slowly rappel down to the ground, but now, feeling the cable in his hand he had to admit the boy was right, the cable wouldn't hold long enough. But maybe if he used it to… right next to the main cell block was a free standing watch tower… With a ladder attached to its outside wall.

Chance ripped as much of the cable loose as possible, then swung it like a lasso and threw it over to the tower where it caught at the top of the ladder.

"Hang on, what are you going to…"

Using the cable like Tarzan a liana, Chance jumped off the roof with the boy on his back and swung towards the tower. As predicted by Isamu, the cable broke, but they had enough momentum to reach the ladder nevertheless. Chance cushioned the collision with his already pretty damaged arm. Bad idea - the jagged metal tore his skin open and cut deep into his flesh. Despite the pain grasping at the rusty steps with all his might, Chance managed to stabilize them.

"Wow…" said Isamu as they quickly descended. "That was cool." And suddenly there was the same excitement in his voice that Chance had picked up from Ash back in the office's kitchen, when the volcano had erupted.

There were still no guards in sight, but when Chance's feet touched the ground, a cold voice behind him spoke up. "Nicely done." The Russian accent was unmistakable.

Bogdan.

"All I want is the boy", he told Chance. "Hand him over and I'll let you leave."

"Why?", asked Isamu, not caring at all about the machine gun in Bogdan's hand. "What do you want from me?"

"You really don't know? You don't know who…"

Bogdan didn't get any further. A hit against the back of his head with the butt of a machine gun silenced him. "Let's get out of here, bro", Guerrero told Chance. Baptiste was with him, too. He was still carrying the cuffs, apparently as a last resort. His shoulder was bleeding profoundly. Behind them Joubert and Winston were coming up in a car from Bogdan's lot. They came to a screeching halt right next to them.

Chance helped Isamu to get into the car, then urged Guerrero to climb in. He turned around and saw that Baptiste was bending over Bogdan, but already straightening himself up again. He hurried into the car, too, Chance jumped in and off they went.

About a second later, an explosion behind them shook the car as they headed off the premises.

Baptiste wasn't carrying the cuffs anymore.

"Was that necessary?", Chance asked Baptiste.

"How long do you want to protect the boy? Bogdan would have come for him again."

Chance didn't reply. He knew Baptiste was right.


	77. Chapter 77

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Chance was in bad condition, not only with the fresh wound on his arm sending searing spasms throughout his body, but also with his old injuries painfully reminding him of their existence. The gash on Baptiste's shoulder was no minor scratch either. Guerrero suggested a back alley doc he knew in Sacramento, but Joubert advised them to head home and into the safety of the warehouse as soon as possible. Bogdan hadn't been without friends.

The air in the car Guerrero had gotten for them halfway between Sacramento and San Francisco was smelling strongly of copper and sweat by the time they reached the outskirts of San Francisco. Silence reigned, only now and then broken by the navigation system's instructions till Guerrero switched it off with an annoyed, impatient gesture. He was driving, with Winston riding shotgun and keeping an eye on the traffic and any potential followers.

Isamu sat silently between Chance, Joubert and Baptiste on the back seat, eyes wide open. Chance could see that the boy's mind was reeling with questions. Akemi hat told him a believable lie about his father. The events of the past few days had shaken that lie, made him start to wonder. The men's wounds, their pain and their blood, had stopped him from asking so far, but he wouldn't forget those questions.

Chance was planning to talk to Akemi, help her conveying another story that would put Isamu's suspicions to rest, but by the time they arrived at the warehouse he was too exhausted. His body was screaming for treatment, he wanted to clean up, take a pain killer, lay down and just sleep. When Winston offered to deliver Isamu to Akemi, impatiently waiting at the safehouse Guerrero had chosen for her, he gladly accepted.

"We've got to be quiet", Chance told the others as they entered the warehouse through the loading bay. "Ash mustn't hear us." Despite his injuries, he insisted on taking the staircase instead of one of the elevators. They made too much noise. Guerrero helped him master the steps one by one. It was a slow and grueling journey upstairs.

… … …

It hadn't escaped Ash's notice that Ilsa had been tense all day, no matter how hard she had tried to hide it. In the afternoon she had received a telephone call. Afterwards she told him his father and the others were okay. She said there was no need to worry, but her body language, the thin wrinkles around her eyes and the way she kept her spine overly straight, told him otherwise. She sent him off to bed after dinner, telling him Chance would arrive too late in the night for him to stay up.

Ash however, clad in nothing but pajamas, sneaked into his father's living-room from where he had a better view of the office. Luckily Ilsa had retired to the guestroom. He took a flashlight and a book, huddled himself into a blanket on the sofa and waited. Not used to sentinel duty, the boy soon dozed off to sleep, but after about an hour he suddenly snapped his eyes open. Unmoving at first, he let his eyes dart around in the darkness and listened. There was movement in the kitchen! They were back!

... ... ...

Bapiste's gash required stitches and none of them was better with needles than Guerrero. After a moment of hesitation he indicated with a nod that he'd work on it, leaving Chance's injuries to be patched up by the Old Man. Wordlessly Chance and Baptiste took off their shirts and finally sat down while Guerrero spread out his first aid equipment on the kitchen table and Joubert got the chemicals ready. They needed stuff for local anesthesia, cleansing, later maybe something to get Chance and Baptiste to sleep for a while. Both lacked rest.

While Guerrero arranged his various scalpels, needles and tweezers, all immaculately clean, he couldn't help but notice that Ilsa hadn't shown up. Great babysitter that she was, not noticing four notorious criminals sneaking into the office… ah well, he'd work with her on her sentinel abilities… and he'd definitely enjoy it… she still owed him quite a bit for the number she had pulled with Chance in Scotland….

"Dad?"

They all gave a start – damn, nobody had heard the boy approach. Granted, he was barefooted, but still…

Ash stood frozen to the spot, face pale, staring at them, eyes widening in terror as he saw the torn open flesh of his father's arm and realized that the dark spots on the discarded shirts on the floor must be blood, too. A lot of blood.

Chance opened his mouth to quickly send him back to bed, but Joubert was faster: "This is nothing to be afraid of, son. Your father got hurt and now we will patch him up again."

Ash didn't reply, he just kept staring at the ugly, jagged wound on Chance's arm. Chance tried to pull his arm out of sight, but by now his muscles were beyond sore, every movement felt like someone was stabbing a knife in his back. God damn it, he should have never allowed Ash to stay overnight while Philippa was away – he'd get nightmares, he'd be damaged for life… Chance's stomach churned at the idea of what he was doing to his son right now, with letting him witness this bloodbath…

"Come here son", the Old Man instructed Ash, beckoning him with his free hand at the same time. Chance wanted to protest, but the voice in which Joubert was speaking… it was his calm voice, serious and no-nonsense, but also collected, friendly and, yes, soothing. This was the voice he had used on him when he had been younger, in stark contrast to the way he had barked at him in later years… It was the voice he had used to teach him, and still, after all these years, it did have an effect on him.

And on his son, too. Ash reluctantly stepped closer.

"Before you can dress a wound it is a must to clean it up. Come on, wash your hands in the sink and then grab those rubber gloves."

Again Chance wanted to open his mouth and put a stop to this, but again he couldn't bring himself to say anything. It wasn't only Joubert's voice and the throwback to his own youth it provided… it was also the fact that Guerrero didn't interfere, that his face was grave but spoke of nothing but consent with what Joubert was doing and, most importantly, that Ash was still pale as a ghost, but seemed to be less shell shocked.

With apparently rather great distress, however, Ash eyed the needle with which Guerrero was working on Baptiste's skin.

"Don't worry, we'll keep the stitching part for a later lesson. For now we'll stick to the cleansing." Joubert put an irrigation syringe with a disinfectant solution into the boy's hand. "Hold the syringe perpendicular to the wound…"

He carefully adjusted the device and Ash's fingers till he was doing it correctly.

"Yes, about two to three inches above it. You've got to make sure that the solution floods the wound but drains away from the opening."

Chance shifted slightly in his seat and leaned forward, offering his arm to Ash. "You won't hurt me", he said. "Just go ahead. You're doing fine."

Ash nodded slowly and pressed down on the syringe's plunger. Soon all the Old Man needed to do was direct the boy by quietly pointing a finger every now and then.

Silence fell on the room, so profound, they could hear the church bell from down the block announce the coming of a new day.


	78. Isamu means

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

**_~ Isamu means ~_**

Ilsa snapped her eyes open, jerked upright and tried to scream, but it was too late – a hand had already closed firmly over her mouth and effectively stopped her from uttering anything but a muffled "umpf". Strong arms pushed her back on the bed while a pair of knees pinned her legs down and kept her from kicking out.

"I hope you enjoyed your beauty sleep, Ilsa."

The muffled "umpf" took on an indignant quality, as Ilsa recognized Guerrero, especially since she noticed now that he wore nothing but boxer shorts. His bare chest was only inches away from her face. In the pale moonlight only poorly illuminating the guestroom she couldn't make out much, but she could see his muscles ripple as he worked to keep her down. His skin felt kind of damp, but she couldn't smell any sweat, only something slightly spicy. He must have taken a shower.

"We'll definitely have to work on your sentinel abilities, _boss_."

Ilsa groaned inwardly. She had overslept their arrival… oh damn, this was the kind of thing they'd never fail to remind her of from now on till Judgment Day. Resignedly, she forced herself to relax, accepting whatever punishment Guerrero had planned for her.

To her total surprise, he rolled off her, squeezed himself into the small space between her body and the wall and unceremoniously pushed her out of the bed with his feet. Butt first, she landed with a thump on the floor. "I need to sleep now", he told her, already wrapping himself in the sheets she had only just slept in herself. "Will be a long day tomorrow."

This was one of the moments where Ilsa was pretty sure up in heaven Marshall was laughing his ass off. What was she supposed to do now? Drag Guerrero out of bed? Sure. She had no other choice but to spend the rest of the night on the sofa in the lobby.

Or so she thought – the sofa in the lobby was already occupied! Winston was snoring away deeply. Why in the world hadn't he headed home? Cursing quietly and very unladylike, Ilsa climbed the stairs to Chance's living-quarters. The door to his living-room was ajar. Quietly she stepped in, felt her way to the sofa, slowly lowered herself towards its comfy cushions… and was welcomed by a wet tongue licking right across her face.

"Oh come on, Carmine, down with you, I need to sleep somewhere!"

Predictably, Carmine didn't move an inch. Ilsa had the choice between sleeping on Chance's rug herself (Oh, Guerrero would love that!) and sharing the sofa with the lazy Rottweiler. In the end she managed to push him just enough aside to be able to lie on her back.

Someone please explain to her again: Why exactly had she wanted to be a part of this?

… … …

Only a couple of hours later the new day saw Winston and Guerrero slouch into the kitchen. Wordlessly, Winston fixed himself a cup of coffee and boiled water for Guerrero's tea. Guerrero meanwhile retrieved a pizza box from the fridge and started munching on a cold slice. As Winston sat down opposite from him, he offered him a piece of it. Winston declined, got up again, walked out of the kitchen and came back with a couple of printouts.

Info on the CIA agent whose prints they had lifted off one of the photos in the fake Irish file.

"See that code?" Guerrero indicated a paragraph pretty much in the middle of the page. "Dude is the CIA's version of a cleaner. Something goes wrong, guy like him comes and cleans up the mess. 'Course you won't find his position in any of the official records. Anything happens to him, his people claim they've never seen him."

"So he's most likely not only responsible for the forged file but also for the murder of the Irish police woman…", Winston concluded. "He was probably after the message in the bottle… knows what it's all about…"

Guerrero nodded. "This calls for a conversation."

"Chance needs rest", Winston said, got up and rinsed both their cups in the sink. "I'll go with you."

If Guerrero was surprised at Winston's announcement, he didn't show it. "Expect you downstairs in ten, dude", was all he said, then he disappeared in the direction of the elevator.

… … …

Meanwhile in the inner yard of the former Sacramento State Prison, Innokentij Krektovic, second head of горизонт stared at his business partner Bogdan's shredded remains. The explosives in the handcuffs had distributed them over half the yard. Innokentij made a mental note not to order these devices anymore. Too many unreliable factors.

"We couldn't do anything!", one of the guards who had witnessed the captives' escape reaffirmed for about the hundredth time. "These people were crazy, totally reckless, especially their leader!".

Innokentij comtemplated putting a bullet in his head, just because he was getting on his nerves so much, and maybe it would teach the other guards a lesson… he played with the gun in the pocket of his jacket… released the safety catch… it would be another body to dispose of, yes, but since they had to get rid of Bogdan anyway…

Ah, he wasn't in the mood today. Instead he mulled over the guard's words. It took some special abilities to take down a man like Bogdan… Not to mention the small army that had helped him watch the boy. Damn Crane, even from the grave he caused them trouble…

"Christopher Chance…", he finally mumbled thoughtfully, scratching his thick black beard. He had heard the name before, vaguely, every now and then. High bounty on his head. Bogdan had known more about him, but not much.

"Do some digging. I want you to find out everything about this man. Every last bit. Where does he hide? Who are his friends? Does he have family? Turn every stone."


	79. Chapter 79

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: I'm currently on a business trip, writing from my tab pc. Please excuse any typos, this is not exactly comfortable, but I can't stay away from writing either, I'm officially addicted now. **_

Winston and Guerrero drove all day in almost complete silence. They could have saved quite some time by taking Ilsa's jet, but that would have involved giving her at least a vague idea of what they were up to and that was out of the question. She had grown to tolerate a lot over the past year, that was not the problem, but CIA people had killed Marshall and the chance that she would freak out of sheer worry when hearing they were planning to take on a CIA member was too high. They needed to do this on their own.

Chance wouldn't be too amused either, once he woke up and found out they were gone. He knew their latest trail in the case of Guerrero's father had led straight to the CIA and the idea that his friends would go one on one with someone from the agency without him present... he'd probably freak worse than Ilsa. But with the sleeping pill Guerrero had slipped him, he'd probably sleep in for quite a while, giving them a headstart.

"Dude's got a daytime job at the building inspection office as a cover. He thinks he's careful, uses a different route home everyday, but whenever time is pressing because his realtor wife has an appointment that unexpectedly takes longer and he needs to pick his daughter up from dancing practice, he uses a certain back alley as a shortcut. Easy to block off. No security cams around. Guess whose wife will text him this evening because she's stuck in a meeting with a client?" Neither Guerrero's voice nor his face gave away how he was feeling about this. The only thing that was slightly different than usual was the total lack of ironic remarks he usually put in in order to wind up Winston.

"So we pull a Cousin Gregory?", Winston asked. It would be the most logical option.

"Cousin Patrick", Guerrero corrected him. "For a Gregory we'd use our own cars."

After that they fell silent again, till they reached the outskirts of their destination. Guerrero pulled up in front of a cheap motel and proceeded to drop Winston off. "What about you?" Winston was quite put out. Guerrero hadn't said anything about going off alone.

"Preparations", he replied curtly and reached for the car door to yank it shut. Winston held on to it.

"We're in this together, Guerrero."

"Don't worry, you won't miss any of the good stuff." Wham, the door slammed shut and off he drove, leaving Winston with plenty of time to let his imagination run wild, thinking about what exactly Guerrero meant by "good stuff".

Pacing up and down the seedy hotel room, every sordid rumor he had ever heard about Guerrero's interrogation techniques and everything he had ever experienced with him first hand, replayed in his head. Of course he soon had company...

"You're horrified as hell by what Guerrero might do to that poor soul, and still you're here", Leonard remarked, smug as hell. "Explanation please."

Winston opened his mouth and then shut it again, lost for words. Leonard started laughing. "Tough guy you are, you'e got no clue."

_Tough guy. _

Odd comment... He had heard the expression before, of course, but right now it brought back a particular memory - Ames, cuffed to one of their office chairs, hissing at Guerrero, playing it cool, trying to hide her fear.

_Are you going to hit a defenseless girl again?_

He remembered himself barging in, talking to Ames... and in the end: _We need it fast, Guerrero._ Knowing full well he'd scare the living daylights out of her... Back then he had willingy accepted that Guerrero would hurt Ames. Probably badly. The hook to peel her fingernails off had already been out and of course the weapon to shoot her in the kneecaps... Torture. Why had he been willing to go with it?

Because his relationship with Chance had been on the line. If they had lost Ilsa, they would have lost Chance, too.

No way. Chance had been more important to him than any morals.

And now?

"Guerrero is my friend", Winston told Leonard, his voice barely audible. It didn't matter. Ghosts hear very well. "I don't want to lose him."

Just like he hadn't wanted to lose Chance.

Leonard started clapping. "You know what, old pal? Sometimes courage means stopping to lie to yourself and admitting the truth." He took a step back. "See you, Winston. Maybe soon." He slowly turned gray and faded away.

As if on cue, Guerrero returned a minute later. Of course he didn't tell Winston where he had been. More or less wordlessly they got into the car Guerrero had stolen and got themselves another one in close proximity of the back alley. Pulling the Cousin Patrick was relatively easy. The agent struggled, but between the two of them and with the element of surprise on their side, he didn't stand much of a chance. Hooded and cuffed, they put him in the trunk of a third car and brought him to a vacant row house in what looked like a very bad part of the city. As Guerrero tied him to a chair, Winston braced himself for the things to come. This wasn't going to be pretty.

Guerrero retrieved something from his tackle box. A hook? A scalpel?

It was a cell phone.

"I'm calling your daughter now", Guerrero told the agent and pressed the phone against his covered ear. Soon enough they could hear the little girl. She didn't pay any attention to her father's strangely muffled voice, she was way too excited: "Daddy, daddy, thank you for the beautiful doll your friend brought me."

The agent didn't even need to ask what his "friend" had looked like. He understood.

"What do you want to know?", he asked.


	80. Chapter 80

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"The bottle", Guerrero prompted.

The CIA agent sighed. "So you are Guerrero."

He received no reply, neither confirmation nor denial. "Talk", was all Guerrero said, but it was enough to give Winston goose bumps.

"The ironic thing is, everything that was done was done because we've been afraid of you", the agent tried again to determine his kidnapper's identity.

"Cut to the chase, dude."

"This happened decades ago... it has already cost enough lives... you should let sleeping dogs lie."

Guerrero pulled his gun and fired. The bullet missed the agent's knee so barely, it singed the fabric of his trousers. The message was loud and clear. The next one...

"The last thing you heard of your father was that he went on an official trip to Florida in 1967...", the agent slowly began. "He was supposed to teach young police officers about interrogation techniques...He never got back from that trip and your mother assumed he had run off with another woman... there were certain hints..."

"You people planted them?" To the agent's ears Guerrero's voice surely sounded cold, merciless, harsh, all the things that it was supposed to. Winston, however, picked up another note underneath all that armor, a note he had, despite all those years they were working together now, never perceived before.

It worried him deeply.

The agent barely dared to answer Guerrero's question. In the end he settled for a vague nod. To his great, if only temporary, relief, Guerrero didn't retaliate. Memories long locked up were fighting their way to the surface, keeping him preoccupied.

_I don't want you to go, Daddy._

_Don't worry, I'll be back soon._

_Promise?_

_Promise._

"On the 27th of July your father was travelling in the coast region, very early in the morning, in a back then scarcely populated area. A flat tire forced him to stop. According to the file that must have been when he heard the voices..."

The agent hesitated again. Guerrero pressed his gun's muzzle against his kneecap.

"He must have heard screaming that led him to a nearby field. There he found a young couple, man and woman, writhing in pain. It must have been a horrible sight. They were bleeding from their eyes and mouths. A lesser man would have run, but your father showed courage. A true policeman - he tried to help..."

The agent fell silent again, probably silently praying that his praise of Guerrero's father's behavior would earn him some sort of brownie points. Well, it seemed to be working: No muzzle against the knee this time. Guerrero didn't urge him on.

Not wanting to disturb his privacy, Winston had refrained from looking at Guerrero during the first part of the interrogation, but now, with the prolonged silence filling the room, he cautiously glanced at him.

Guerrero looked frozen. He wasn't moving a single muscle. Stone still his eyes were trained on their captive.

Wordlessly Winston took the gun from his hand and shoved it against the captive's right knee. The agent, still hooded, couldn't tell the difference.

"Why were they bleeding?" , Winston asked. Only now the agent knew for sure he was dealing with more than one person.

"A military experiment gone wrong. Escaped virus. Malfunction in the ventilation system. The couple was camping illegally on the grounds of the research facility where it was developed. When the symptoms set in they ran off in a panic. People from the facility were already on their trail, but when they got to them, your father had already been infected... "

"The bottle..." Guerrero interrupted him coldly.

"When he saw the soldiers coming, your father fled. He was found ten minutes later, at his car. In those ten minutes he must have written the message in the bottle and thrown it into the sea. We didn't know about it till it was washed to the shore in Ireland decades later and that Irish cop started snooping around. Decades later, heavens... The doctors from the facility did everything in their power to save your father, but he was beyond rescue. It was all an accident."

"A hushed up accident", Guerrero hissed.

"It was the high time of the Cold War. If it had come out that the USA were experimenting with a deadly virus.."

"Well, the Triad assassin that killed the Irish cop wasn't hired by accident, was he?" Winston again.

"The people who were in charge on the day of the accident, they did great things for this country in the years that followed... some still do." The agent shifted in his seat, turning in the direction where he assumed Guerrero, directly addressing him now.

"When your father's message showed up...We know what impact his disappearance had on your mother, on you..."

The image of an empty bottle of cheap Whiskey, thrown against a wall, barely missing his head, flashed up in Guerrero's mind.

"If the Irish cop had brought you the message you wouldn't have stopped till every last person involved would have been punished. We couldn't risk you taking revenge on these people. They are heroes."

Winston's stomach turned to ice. The agent was completely right. This would send Guerrero on a killing spree... turn him into a true monster... He'd go after every single person involved, no matter how old they were now, no matter how many great things they had done. Not to mention the consequences… It would end everything... his involvement with the team... and what about his son?

Although he had known it for quite a while now, the idea of Guerrero having a son still made Winston shake his head in disbelief. Tonight, however, the knowledge made his knees buckle.

Guerrero would become hunted. After the initial shock the CIA would surely retaliate. He'd spend the rest of his life on the run. Even going near his child would put it at risk.

He'd be a dead man walking.

No. Winston took a deep breath. NO. He couldn't let that happen.

The agent apparently didn't have anything to add. He probably expected a bullet to his brain, but instead Guerrero wordlessly got up and left the room. Winston rushed after him, his mind racing... Maybe there was a way to stop Guerrero, at least for the moment, but would he go for it? He reached him right at the door.

"Got some research to do, dude."

"Yes, you got to. But not on the people who were involved in your father's death. I know you want to take revenge, but there's something a lot more important to do first, don't you think?"

Impatiently turning away from Winston, Guerrero reached for the door handle.

"No!" Winston grabbed his wrist.

Guerrero, frighteningly calm, slowly looked from Winston's hand holding on to his wrist up to his face. "Dude…"

"Hear me out!"


	81. Chapter 81

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"You realize you owe me?" Chance allowed a sharper note to creep into his voice.

"Yes, of course… but it's Guerrero we're talking about…"

Chance could practically see the man on the other end of the line squirm. Just like the others. Damn, this was frustrating.

"I'll keep this in mind." The sharp note in his voice was so strong now that Carmine woke up from his afternoon siesta, lifted his head and looked at his owner, apparently wondering what was going on.

"Listen, if it was anyone else… but info on Guerrero's whereabouts? I do enjoy breathing, you know."

"What makes you think I couldn't hurt you just as much as Guerrero?" Chance bit his lips. He hated using this tone. He was sounding like Junior now.

"I'd rather take my chances with you than face what I definitely know Guerrero has in store for me, should I snitch on him. Aside from that I really don't know where he went."

Chance slammed down the phone in deep frustration. Ever since he had woken up two days ago and discovered that his friends had gone off without him, he had tried to track them down, but no luck so far. At the moment Guerrero's reputation of punishing everyone who got into his way mercilessly was just as hindering as Chance's reputation of following the "nobody deserves to die"-doctrine.

Damn them!

For all he knew they could be in a secret CIA prison in Pakistan or wherever by now.

How dare they put their lives at risk like that?

At this very moment the security system alerted him to a vehicle pulling up in the alley behind the office. Chance glanced at the monitor and allowed himself a brief sigh of relief.

_They were alive. _

Then he dashed up the stairs, practically jumped out of his clothes, put on drawstring pants and a faded T-shirt, dashed back down the stairs again, grabbed a spoon and a bowl from the kitchen, filled it with milk and cereals, climbed the stairs once more at hair raising speed, threw himself on his sofa and switched on his TV.

Moments later Winston's shadow darkened the doorstep. "We're back."

Chance, his feet propped up on the coffee table, only briefly looked up from the TV. "You were gone?"

"So you aren't angry that we left without you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Took a bit of a breather. R&R, you know…" Chance stuffed a spoon full of cereals and milk into his mouth…

…and froze.

Winston, stifling a grin, walked up to the sofa. "So, are you enjoying the "Baking with Julia" marathon?, he asked, nodding at the TV. "And the milk gone bad about a week ago?"

Staring daggers at Winston, Chance spit the milk back into the bowl. "What the hell have you been thinking?", he asked.

"You needed the rest, dude." Neither Winston nor Chance had heard Guerrero coming up the stairs. "Feeling better?" His blue eyes studied Chance carefully.

"Why? You need my help?"

"You bet we do", Winston sighed.

"Winston? Guerrero? Where the hell have you been?" Ilsa, shouting downstairs. Seconds later she had climbed the stairs, too, and stood on the threshold to Chance's living-room, snorting like an angry buffalo.

"This is intolerable. I am your employer after all. You cannot just leave as you please! I want answers, now!"

Neither Winston nor Guerrero said anything at first. They had discussed Ilsa's involvement on the drive back. Finally Guerrero spoke up: "Ilsa, we let you in, there's no going back, you're in."

Ilsa took a deep breath. The tone of Guerrero's voice… the eerily calm way he spoke… whatever they were hesitating to tell her, it was damn serious.

But when hadn't things around here been serious? She needed to know what was going on. There was no way she'd turn around and bury her head in the sand.

"I'm in", Ilsa said.

And so Winston and Guerrero told both of them.

… … …

When they had finished their summary of the agent's revelations, both Chance's and Ilsa's eyes rested on Guerrero. For a long while they both said nothing, then Ilsa took a deep breath, opened her mouth… A gesture from Chance made her close it again.

"You realize what avenging this will mean?"

Winston recognized Chance's tone. It was the same he had used back at the prison, after Guerrero had been framed for murder and attempted to escape.

"For now there's something more important to do" Guerrero replied. "My father's body is still at that research facility. Deep-frozen, conserved for further studies. He deserves a burial."

Chance knew immediately where this was coming from and shot Winston a grateful look – _Well done. _

"But what about the virus? What if the coldness hasn't kill it? If you… I'm sorry… but if you unfreeze him… you might set that virus free…", Ilsa objected, very cautiously.

"Does the facility have a crematory?", Chance asked.

Guerrero nodded and whilst Ilsa was still trying to understand exactly why Chance had asked that particular question, Chance already began to grin.

"Could be one of my plans", he said.

Slowly it dawned on Ilsa what the men were planning with the crematory. Oh heavens, they did not only want to break into a secret, most likely heavily guarded military research facility, they also wanted to cremate Guerrero's father's body in there and then steal the ashes?

Oh boy.

But she had said she was in.

"So, what's my part? And what about Ash? Who'll be on watch here?"

"_You_'ll be on watch here…", Guerrero said, and before she could protest, he made a waving gesture with his hand, directing her to follow him. Chance and Winston exchanged glances.

"Really? You're going to tell her?", said Chance's look.

Winston shrugged. "Guerrero's decision."

… … …

Guerrero led Ilsa down to the basement of the warehouse. He pushed a heavy-looking drawer aside and revealed a hidden door. Behind that hidden door was a room, parted in half by a row of iron bars from floor to ceiling. And behind the iron bars was a man with a hood over his head, tied to a chair screwed tight to the concrete. He seemed to be unconscious.

"You've got a secret prison cell in here?" Ilsa couldn't believe it.

"It's equipped with sanitary installations, gives him plenty of room to stretch his legs and all the fresh air he could ask for. Lots of cornflakes and biscuits in the box over there. All you have to do is check on him regularly and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. I'll untie him before he wakes up and remove the hood, so make always go in masked. You'll find gloves and everything else in the drawer", Guerrero instructed her.

"I'm employing people who built a secret prison cell in their workplace?"

"You owe me a couple of bucks for the installations, by the way. Struck a deal with the contractor, though. Dude gave a discount."

Once Ilsa got over the initial shock and was ready to walk upstairs again – she definitely needed a drink now – Winston pulled her aside.

"There's something else we need you to do."


	82. Chapter 82

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"Why", Ilsa thought and slammed the door to the storage room shut behind her, "why in the world can't things ONCE go according to plan around here?" She quickly slipped on the black leather gloves, put on the gorilla mask (thank you Guerrero, thank you _so _much for that) and pushed the drawer aside to reveal the hidden door, something she had done about a dozen times today.

The agent was already waiting for her. "Finally! I'm starving here! Now, I know an allergy against wheat is inconvenient, but remember – I'm the one who's got to live with it! Did you get those special noodles from the take-out service I asked you for?"

Wordlessly, Ilsa handed him a packet.

"What… rice cookies? For dinner? Come on, this is…" The agent broke off and started laughing. "Okay, you got me, you saw through that maneuver. Yes, I wanted you to get food from that special take-out service so I could track you back later. But seriously, you don't really want me to live on biscuits and cornflakes, do you? Ever heard of scurvy?"

Ilsa fought the urge of telling him that she surely wasn't planning to play his maidservant long enough that he'd have a chance to develop scurvy. A) This was another trick of his to find out who she was and B) she'd probably poison him first…

…wait a second… oh heavens, another Guerrero semi-quote that had crept into her thinking…

"Come on, just some fizzy vitamin tablet, to go with the water. It would mean a lot to me. If we catch you, I'll put in a good word for you. And catch you we will…"

Normally the agent would have tried the "I have a heart attack"-approach in a situation like this, with a clearly inexperienced warden, but Guerrero, the sly bastard, had taken all keys with him.

_"But what if the building is on fire?", he had asked._

_"I suggest a prayer, dude. Saint Florian patronages against fire. "_

Shaking her head at the fizzy tablet request, Ilsa turned on her heels and stomped out of the room, loudly closing the door behind her and then yanking the mask off her face. A glance at her watch made her fall into a trot – oh boy, the lasagna!

When she finally got upstairs, panting from the sprint up the staircase – she couldn't take the elevator, Ash was not supposed to know where exactly in the warehouse she was going all the time – the boy had already retrieved it from the oven.

"Thank you! I was so caught up in this… conference call… I totally forgot the time", she apologized.

"Interesting baking gloves", Ash remarked, cutting the dish's crust.

Ilsa looked at her hands – her heart jumped – the leather gloves! She had forgotten to take off the leather gloves!

"There was some …um… problem with the installations down in the basement…"

"And you were fixing them while doing the conference call at the same time?"

For a tiny moment the boy's bright blue eyes threw her. He was suddenly looking directly at her and damn, did he have his father's eyes. Then Ilsa managed to regain her CEO/company owner/adult in charge composure. She pulled herself up to her full height.

"With your father not present, there's a lot to do here. Speaking of – as far as I know you are going to face your first Spanish test soon. How are the preparations going?"

"Ah, Spanish, that's still a tomorrow problem, Mrs. Pucci…"

Ilsa slowly started massaging her forehead with her fingertips.

… … …

"WHY", Winston thundered via earpiece, "why in the world can't things ONCE go according to plan?"

"Shouldn't that be my line?", Chance asked, testing how solid the door and the walls of his cell were. Damn solid, as it turned out. At least they hadn't discovered the earpiece, so he was still connected to Winston and Guerrero on the run somewhere in the southern part of the premises.

Didn't change the fact that he was currently locked up facing terrorism charges for breaking into a secret military research facility, though.

A huge explosion made Chance cringe and press his hand against the earpiece. Seconds later it was followed by an angry curse and a "Told you parking under a tree brings bad luck, dude.", so Chance at least knew his friends were okay.

"Tell me that wasn't our getaway car", he said.

"There's still the helicopter, dude. We're heading there now."

"That's great. Don't worry about me being trapped in a cell. I'll just pick the lock and join you there."

"Good. See you then, bro."

Chance couldn't believe it. Had Guerrero really just…? Granted, he had a history of willingly sacrificing himself, yes, but he liked to make that particular decision alone. What the hell…?

A noise coming from the door interrupted his thought process before he could fully interpret why his friends seemed to be inclined to leave him behind. The lock groaned, something was scratching its insides… Seconds later the door swung open and revealed…

Ames.

So his suspicions had been justified – at least one of the team members had kept contact with her. The traps she had set for him in the zoo, the museum etc. had been too elaborate for Ames acting completely on her own.

"What are you staring at? We've got a flight to catch!"

He had barely time to take in her appearance. She looked different – her clothes were more toned down than usual, more practical. Her hair was tied into a no-nonsense ponytail. She looked… matured.

Shouting at the end of the corridor let them know that they had been discovered.

They both started running, dashing away from the guards, through a small side door, down a flight of stairs and into the open.

Where more armed men forced them to change directions once again. They were just crossing one of the multiple inner yards of the facility when an explosion on the other side of the buildings made the ground shake and caused several window in the distance to shatter.

Ames groaned. "Oh, I hope that wasn't…."

Angry shouts told them the guards were getting closer to them again. They broke into another run.

At first Ames was slightly faster than Chance, but as they rounded the next corner, he had managed to catch up with her. "I'm sorry, Ames. And I miss you", he said.

"Great. _Now_ you're telling me."

"What, that's what you've been waiting for, isn't it?"

Ames would have probably sighed in frustration, hadn't she been running so fast. "Chance, we're chased by a crew of six heavily armed soldiers, we're heading towards an area we know is prepared with landmines and our only route of escape, the helicopter, most likely just blew up. Don't tell me you didn't choose exactly this moment to apologize because you knew we couldn't discuss the whole thing properly!"

A bullet whizzed past her shoulder and she threw herself to the ground. Chance grabbed her arm and helped her up again. "That's a really mean assumption."

"Chance? Chance? You don't happen to be near the minefield, do you?" Winston's voice via earpiece.

"Yeah, we're here", Chance confirmed, pulling Ames into the shadow of one of the buildings, holding her tight till the guards had passed them by.

"Good, us too."

Chance wheeled around, and there they were, Winston and Guerrero, out of breath, a bit roughed up, but alive.

"Was that our helicopter?", Ames asked.

Guerrero shook his head. "Diversionary maneuver. Our helicopter is still intact. Chance can fly you out of here."

They all understood immediately what he was saying.

_You. _

_Chance can fly_ you _out. _

The look on Chance's face spoke volumes, but Guerrero was having none of it.

"I located my father's body. I'm going to cremate it."

"I'm going with you."

"Forget it, dude. The lab with the crematory is a trap, no way out."

"We'll find a way out."

Both Chance and Guerrero wheeled around and stared at Winston. "No", they both told him in unison.

"Did I ever take orders from any of you?" Winston started stomping off in the direction of where he assumed the laboratory was, fiercely determined not to part with his friends.

For a moment Guerrero just stared at him, then he nodded. "Lab's in the south, dude."

"Wiseass."

As they headed off towards the building where Guerrero assumed his father's body was kept, Chance pulled Ames aside. "You don't have to do this."

Ames simply shook her head. "You won't get rid of me that easily."


	83. Chapter 83

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

**_A/N: Thank you, jackattack, for your reviews! So glad you're still reading!_**

"We've got two things working in our favor – first, they don't know who we are, so they don't know what we might be after and probably won't be looking for us in their cold storage section, second, there's a good chance they assume we're trying to get off the premises right now, so they'll secure the fringes first and then work their way inward, this will buy us some time…" Chance pulled his gun and shot at the keypad that was locking the door to the storage unit where the scientists kept the frozen examination objects. Luckily the incinerator was in the same building.

"Just two? Isn't it usually three things of something?"

"This isn't one of Grimm's Fairy Tales, Ames."

Guerrero hesitated for a moment, then switched on the ceiling lighting. The shot key pad was a dead giveaway anyway, light in a building where there wasn't supposed to be any light wouldn't matter much in that context. Their only chance was that in all the ruckus of sirens, searching and sealing the periphery the guards wouldn't notice something was out of order here.

"God, did I miss working with you!"

The ceiling light revealed a huge room with hundreds of compartments along the back wall, like in a morgue.

"According to the file I pulled from their system before we got discovered…" Guerrero threw Winston a dark look.

"This was not my fault! Don't you dare imply that this was my fault! How was I supposed to know that…"

"…according to the file, which I only could take a brief look at…"

"You didn't know either! And don't you turn your back on me while I'm talking to…"

Guerrero of course never stopped walking till he reached a specific compartment at the far end of the room. Chance put a hand on Winston's shoulder. Winston fell silent. He understood.

"We should get this oven thing working", Ames mumbled. "And maybe think of a way out of here. I mean come on, there must be some kind of backdoor – a secret escape tunnel from the Cold War, an air duct…"

"This is no Hollywood action shit either, Ames", both Chance and Winston said almost simultaneously. Behind them a screeching metal sound let them know that Guerrero had opened the compartment.

… … …

His father's body was not only completely frozen but also sealed with a transparent plastic wrap. White frost clung to it here and there. Nevertheless his face was clearly visible.

The face of a young man in his early thirties.

He looked exactly like the last time Guerrero had seen him.

More than forty years ago.

Out of nowhere a scrap of conversation flashed up in Guerrero's mind:

_What's the most important thing in the world, dad? _

_Being a good father. _

For decades this answer had reverberated in his memory and left nothing but a bitter taste. It had shaped the way he had been looking at the world, at people…with Chance for a long time being the only exception.

Goddamnit, he had gotten it all wrong. All of it. The hints that the CIA had planted… They had made him believe… And his mother…

White hot rage washed over Guerrero. He'd take them down. All of them, one by one.

A loud hiss and then a continuous swooshing sound told him his friends had managed to get the incinerator working. For a brief moment Guerrero pressed his palm against his father's chest. It felt ice-cold and rock-hard to his touch. Then he called Chance. Together they heaved the frozen body onto a gurney.

… … …

Despite the wailing sirens and the other ruckus all around, nobody said anything for a moment as the incinerator's door closed with a definite snap and the swooshing sound grew louder as the flames consumed the body. The look on Guerrero's face told Winston that he had only been able to stall Guerrero's plans of revenge for a short time.

He wouldn't let go.

It was Chance who finally broke the silence. "We could pull a Black Friday", he said. "Remember what we learned in Houston? All military research facilities are overseen and controlled by one institution in Washington. All these key pad protected doors are not only to prevent break-ins. One flip of a switch in Washington and they get firmly locked, no one gets in, no one gets out till the decontamination teams arrive. Raises the chances of keeping an escaped virus local."

"If we persuade Washington that a killer virus is on the loose here…", Winston thought aloud.

"Would they lock in their own people and we could get away because our key pad is blown?" A loud hiss from inside the incinerator made Ames shiver. "How do we persuade them?"

"Easiest would be to manipulate their data…" Guerrero was still staring at the incinerator's closed door. "But when our cover was blown they detected me in the system and pulled up an internal emergency firewall. Would take hours to get around it. Not enough time."

"Internal firewall? So with an external computer we could manipulate the data in Washington?"

For a moment none of the men understood what Ames was suggesting. Then:

"Seriously, Ames…"

"Did you receive a blow to the head when you freed Chance?"

"Dude…"

Ames, however, was insistent. "She's our only chance."

… … …

Ilsa's cell started ringing just when she had put the drawer back into place. By now she was seriously considering slipping the agent a narcotic… Guerrero kept a small collection of sedatives in the bathroom… if she only knew the correct dose…

"How much of an anesthetic would you give an approximately 120 pound male in good physical health to keep him under for the next eight hours or so?", Ilsa asked instead of a greeting as she recognized Guerrero's number.

"Basics of poisoning later, boss. Are you close to a computer?"

Ilsa mastered the stairs up to the office floor in record time. Gasping for air she slumped in a seat in the conference room. "The next secret prison cell will be built somewhere into the office!"

"Now do exactly as I tell you… first you need to find a path… open the file named xf10… type in the following code… no typos, boss, otherwise the system will shut you out immediately…"

"Guerrero…"

"You can do it, Ilsa…"

Her hands were shaking, but his voice in her ear, precise and calm, helped. It guided her through the jungle of numbers and letters that filled the screen, once she had found the correct path.

"We're very deep in their system now. Here comes the tricky part. You must find the DNA data code. Once we have it we can insert all information we like, but without it…"

"What does it look like?"

The others were listening to Guerrero's and Ilsa's exchange with growing apprehension. Outside the search parties seemed to have started going through the buildings one by one.

"A row of numbers following an anti-binary configuration…"

"There are nothing but rows of numbers…." Ilsa's voice sounded painfully defeated.

Chance got up, looked at Guerrero, shook his head and held out his hand. Guerrero nodded in agreement.

"It's not your fault, Ilsa." He paused, then: "Don't worry." He cut the connection. "You thought of something else, dude?

"Remember Salt Lake City?"

Guerrero could do nothing but stare at his friend in wonder for a moment. "Bro…."

Chance quickly dialed the Washington institution's telephone number: "This is Frank Majors, Christine Ladd-Franklin Research Center. We've got a problem here – someone blundered and a mutated Marburg clone was set free. The others want to hush it up, but I can't put this on my conscience… you need to lock us down, immediately, before the virus manages to get off the premises….. Of course I'm not calling you from one of the official phones! As I said, they want to hush it up – they're pretending we had outside intruders here… in truth it's an inside problem… check my coordinates, this cell phone is inside the facility…"

Two minutes later they heard the distinctive click locks make when they're activated all at once.


	84. Chapter 84

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: So this is it – my version of what a fourth season might have been like. What started out at as a coping mechanism after the heartbreaking cancellation of the show has by now become a complex project. I would have never ever come that far without the invaluable help of niagaraweasel, who has kindly taken up the position of being my beta, secretary and soundboard, sacrificing her evenings to make my chapters better. I also wouldn't know what to do without the wonderful veniceit, whose comments both public and private spurred me on when RL became a bit rocky and writing harder. PocketSevens, Minx227 – thank you so much for your regular support and your PMs, you have no idea what feedback means to me and how much it carried me when everything looked bleak. Last but not least I'd like to thank everyone who ever left a review, thank you, thank you so much for taking the time, and hugs to all my silent readers. I can see you in the statistics that FFnet provides (greetings to Ireland and Denmark!) – thank you for staying with me for so long. This has been quite a ride and I enjoyed it thoroughly. I hope you did, too, and that I managed to meet your expectations. So…. I'm going to write another season, my take on what a fifth season might have been like. It will be called "Tsubasa means" and will start next Friday. Interested? **_

When they got back to the office, a visitor was waiting for them.

Akemi, the Crane's wife.

She had already thanked Winston the evening they had gotten back from Sacramento, but now she wanted to tell all of them in person how grateful she was. In closing, she explicitly addressed Guerrero.

"The new identity you got us… the safe address…you made sure Isu could go to a good school and grow up in a good neighborhood…"

Akemi had asked if she could live in San Francisco and Guerrero had seen to that.

"Jin and you were enemies most of your lives, but still you cared about his son. Thank you." She handed Guerrero a small something, made of paper.

"Isu made it. It's an origami crane."

Guerrero, origami piece in one hand, the ashes of his father in the other, just looked at it for a long moment. "For the amount of money you paid you could expect…", he finally started, but Akemi interrupted him with a soft touch to the hand holding the urn with the ashes.

"Isu doesn't know his father was called the Crane. He chose this symbol because in Japan it stands for good fortune and longevity. According to fables cranes have a lifespan of a thousand years. It also represents fidelity. Japanese cranes mate for life. After the Second World War people began to fold cranes as a form of healing and hope in challenging times. After he saw how much all of you went through to rescue him, he found it appropriate."

Akemi's words almost brought tears to Winston's eyes. Good fortune, longevity, healing and hope… Guerrero would get none of that, once he set his retaliation campaign in motion.

"As a child I learned traditional Japanese ceremonies from my grandmother. There is one that aims at finding peace when darkness seems to have overcome us. Would you like me to perform that ritual for you?" She rested her eyes on the urn.

… … …

It was pretty clear from the very beginning that Guerrero would scatter the ashes, not bury them. He would have never said so, but the thought process behind this decision was not difficult to understand: His father had been locked up in darkness and ice for so long, he deserved freedom, sunshine, fresh air, finally.

Guerrero chose a place in the hills, not far from the plateau where they had worked the Lillian Garnett case and apprehended Warren Mills. The spot he had chosen, however, didn't resemble her eerie supposed-to-be burial site at all. It provided a breathtaking view over a vast valley full of trees, with a dark blue lake shimmering in the middle.

The mother of Guerrero's child had insisted on her and her son attending. "It's his grandfather, for heaven's sake!" Ash had seen the urn in the office and Guerrero had invited him, too. Akemi had brought Isamu. Together with Winston, Ilsa, Chance and Ames they all gathered three days later, on a sunny winter day.

Akemi's ritual lasted about twenty minutes. It was in Japanese and except for Chance and Guerrero nobody understood a word, but it didn't matter. The message was unmistakable: The only place where you can find true peace is in your heart.

When the time came to open the urn, Ash slowly turned and detached himself a little from the others. This was the first funeral he had ever been to. He had seen some on TV, but this was different. The finality of it all…

Isamu, feeling strongly reminded of his father's funeral, drifted off a little, too. He hadn't known the man whose ashes they were scattering and he barely knew Guerrero, but this was heavy stuff. The blond boy who had come with the man who had rescued him was standing on the far side of the plateau, away from the others, too. There was something about him, the way he was standing there… Isu decided to join him.

Both stared at the valley, the trees, the lake for a while in silence. The wind that was going to carry the content of the urn away tugged at their hair.

"I'm Isamu. Isu, if you will. Don't turn it into Sue, though."

"Well, my name's Ashley, so…"

They both laughed.

And then, in a rather odd gesture for such young boys, the two shook hands.

"Do you sometimes have the feeling they're not telling you the truth?", Isu asked, nodding in the direction of the group of adults.

Where had the question come from? Hard to say. He had wanted to ask it for a while now, ever since his kidnapping, and somehow this Ashley seemed the right person to direct it at.

After a moment of hesitation, Ash opened his mouth to answer, but just then he noticed Guerrero's son, probably bored by the grown-ups' strangely solemn behavior, staggering towards them.

"Hey, hombre, you wanna be with us?"

_Hombre._

Why did he call him like that? Maybe because he didn't know the boy's real name or because he had just started with Spanish at school and wanted something similar to "Guerrero" but had only limited vocabulary to choose from - or maybe a combination of both and yet another factor. It didn't matter anyway. He picked up the boy and held him, the child's legs wrapped around his waist.

The wind picked up the ashes from the open urn and carried them far into the valley in a fluent, silvery gray stream, that grew more and more translucent as it disappeared in the distance.

When the urn was completely empty, Guerrero nodded and closed it with a resolute snap. Time to take care of business. He looked around for the mother of his son. There were some things he needed to tell her before… where was his son?

Chance tapped against his shoulder and pointed to the three boys on the other side of the plateau: Isamu, Ash and his own kid in Ash's arms.

"Is it only me or do they look like they're up to something?", Winston grumbled, frowning.

"He might need you along the way, you know?", Chance said quietly.

_What's the most important thing in the world, dad? _

_Being a good father. _

The mother of Guerrero's son came walking up to them. "You wanted to talk to me?", she asked, her voice clearly worried. She knew Guerrero well and she knew when something was up. Judging from the way he had looked at the ashes, at the empty urn… she braced herself for bad news.

It took Guerrero quite a while to react. Face a stony mask, but his hands balled up into fists so tightly the knuckles turned white, he stared off in the distance for such a long time, she felt the urge to reach out to him and get him back from whatever deep dark paths his thoughts were walking. Chance, however, prevented that with subtle shake of his head.

Suddenly taking a deep, audible breath, Guerrero closed his eyes briefly and when he re-opened them he was back again.

"I'd like to see him more often, if that's okay with you", he said, his eyes never leaving his child.


End file.
